The Night That Dixie Died
Long beyond what's better since; between a dream and what's real.
Before what was saved was what was spent, and guilt came prior to appeal.
Before she drank and swam with rum and coke engulfed in the sea,
Her bayous blew through drapes a ballad emerald tapestry;
As her history forlorn indeed did carry charmed hospitality.
From the stage her past often read aghast, incites ubiquitous domain
Slain austere with a dash of pent-up rage, and document retort.
From ferried tasks pray tell to ask missed by her delta plane,
To a Cornwallis chase to King's Mountain face, to assault on Sumter Fort;
Through Vicksburg, Bull Run, Shiloh too, to Brown versus Board on the court.
By far and wide with uncertain pride, 'twixt dirt and rain 'twas trudge
Still a scarred outside cleft a healed inside, left true regret a wall.
Perhaps the sterile dust impedes the dearth from blood where all are judged
Lest fertile earth whose seeds once sewn white knots which clothed us all.
Who'd ever dream the gracious lady's reaper night would call?
The lady in red is dead, I said.
The lady in red is dead.
So when a cherub along tobacco road offered me a smoke,
And a band donned stars and stripes conceived in tattered denim spoke;
A rebel cried for help, a union soldier died and sang.
And above Lee's divided path, the phantoms at Antietam rang.
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