Lumps of rotting clay
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No man's Land is an eerie sight
At early dawn in the pale gray light
Never a house, never a hedge
No man's Land from edge to edge
Never a living soul walks there
To taste the fresh of morning air
Only some lumps of rotting clay
That were my friends or foemen yesterday
What are the bounds of no man's Land?
You can see them clearly on either hand
A mound of rag bags gray in the sun
Or a furrow of brown where the earthworks run
From the eastern hills
Christ, thy name is Panzer!