In Flanders Fields, the poppies blow,
Between the crosses, row on row...

Thundergnat said:

In Flanders Fields, the poppies blow,
Between the crosses, row on row...

That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

Technically, it’s 105.