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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

Learn more about this author, Jerry Curtis.
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