Halfway down the path to Hell, In a shady system green Are the Souls of all dead troopers 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 Engineers, Artillery and Marines, For none but the shades of Cavalrymen may dock at Fiddlers' Green. Though some go curving down the trail To seek a warmer scene. No trooper ever gets to Hell Ere he's emptied his canteen. And so rides back to drink again With friends at Fiddlers' Green. And so when fleet and ship go down Beneath a sabre keen, in a roaring charge or fierce melee You stop a missile clean, And when the reds come for your head, Just empty your canteen, put your pistol to your head And wake to Fiddlers Green.
Dashboard
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Intel Profile
PlaystyleSolo (0 kills)
Avg Fleet: -
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