Fiddler's Green
<with a few key substitutions and apologies to the unknown author circa 1800>
Halfway down the trail to Hell,
In a shady meadow green
Are the Souls of all dead pilots camped,
Near a good old-time canteen.
And this eternal resting place
Is known as Fiddlers' Green.
Marching past, straight through to Hell
The Infantry are seen.
Accompanied by the Coast Guard,
The Navy and Marines,
For none but the shades of Aviators
Dismount at Fiddlers' Green.
Though some go curving down the trail
To seek a warmer scene.
No pilot ever gets to Hell
Ere he's emptied his canteen.
And so flies back to drink again
With friends at Fiddlers' Green.
And so when man and plane go down
Beneath an onslaught keen,
Or in a roaring swirl of fierce melee
You stop a bullet clean,
And the enemy paints you on his rail,
Just empty your canteen,
And go to Fiddlers' Green.
<S> SN1P3R!
See you at the Green! Save a bottle or two!
