by Jerry Curtis

Created on: May 28, 2007

I am the ghost of Pittsburgh
In fifty-six I'd say
A Frenchman's musket killed me
They left me where I lay

And then I fought on Bunker Hill
Many red-coats there we saw
Dead in that violent melee
They left me in the straw

I was there at New Orleans
And the world's last human word
As I aimed my trusty rifle
"Look out!" was all I heard.

I am the ghost of Johnny Reb
I died at old Bull Run
"Up yonder come the Yankees, Boys!"
I was shot by Billy's gun

And I'm the one called Billy Yank
I died at Maryes Hill
I fell in heaps of bodies
As death's hunger had its fill

And then I was a dough boy
Who perished in the trench
As we peered out at the Germans
Who killed off half the French

And then I was a dog-face
Who fought in World War Two
I charged the beach at Normandy
Until a mortar shot me through

The rest were naught but conflicts
Not proper wars they say
But for those of us who died there
The worms still had their way

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