Oh all the golden fields of corn
Are sprinkled with the poppies red,
And every year fresh hope is born
Though all the fields have seemed quite dead.

We choose red poppies to recall
Those brave young men whose blood was shed.
Red petals to remind us all
Of those we call our glorious dead.

But take a poppy from the earth -
It's heart is black as sin and shame,
And let this thought now take its birth,
And fight no more wars in our name.

Are not these deaths enough to pay?
Must young men still their hearts' blood shed?
Remember, this and every day,
The black heart of those poppies red.