Sailors of France

 Raindrops fall,

The wind it roars,

The ship it crashes,

And washes ashore,

It pulls in rocks,

It pulls in gold,

But there no one left

To whom it can be sold,

Then the storm passes,

The wind whispers,

The flowers they dance,

The Sun snickers,

At rabbits that prance,

Around the dead bodies 

of the sailors of France.

-Eva R