The Phoggy Dew

'T'was down the Glenn one Easter morn',

To a city Fair drove I,

Those Pinstriped lines of Phightin' men,

On the radio heard I,

No pipe did hum nor battle drum,

Did sound it's dread tattoo,

But Liberty's Bell o'er the outfield wall,

Rang out o'er the foggy dew.

Right proudly high over Southern Broad,

They hung out the flag of war,

'T'was better to Phight 'neath a Quaker sky,

Than at Citi or Navy Yard,

And from the plains of Delaware,

Strong men came hurryin' to,

While Atlanta's 'Tons, with their long range guns,

Sailed out o'er the foggy dew.

'T'was the Inky bade our wild geese fly,

That we might win a WFC or three,

But their lonely graves lie at Citi's gates,

Or on the fringe of the Grassy Knoll,

Oh had they died by Ed Wade's side,

Or phought with R. A. J.,

I'm sure their names we will keep where the legend sleeps,

'Neath the shroud of the foggy dew.

But the bravest fell as the Liberty bell,

Rang mournfully and clear,

For those who died that Eastertide,

In the spring time of the year,

And the world did gaze with deep amaze,

At those fearless men but few,

Who bore the phight so that freedom's light,

Might shine through the foggy dew.

Who bore the phight so that freedom's light,

Might shine through the foggy dew,

Might shine through the foggy dew,

Might shine through the foggy dew.