After the Somme

We're no longer sitting
behind our foxholes,
yet our hands do not touch.
These trenches have gone
silent for aeons now,
but you just don't seem to mind it too much.

And you sent me your verses in Latin
the day the world started speaking in tongues.
You told me if the truth ain't broken why fix it,
but tomorrow, those Telstar pulses will take

They will tell of me, the nowhere kid,
whereas we'll be sure to paint you as the nonesuch,
But don't you mind tomorrow, dear, don't mind the smoke,
'cause in the end we'll figure out where we belong.