Digital Tradition Mirror

The Ballad of 578

(This score available as ABC, SongWright, PostScript, PNG, or PMW, or a MIDI file)
Pennywhistle notation and Dulcimer tab for this song is also available

The Ballad of 578
(Dick Parks)

On any given evening, if you step into the gloom
Of any given "O" Club, in one corner of the room,
You'll find a grizzled bunch there, drinking lemonade,
Of salty fighter pilots - masters of their trade.
Anchors aweigh, tailpipes aglow;
Old pilots never die!

These crusty, daring devils fulfill an ancient role
That calls for nerves of iron and a stainless steel soul.
It's there that great traditions are shouted to the stars;
Not in sissy flying schools, but down in O Club bars.
Anchors aweigh, tailpipes aglow;
Cowards need not apply!

"Sure anyone can fly a plane", you'll hear these veterans say,
But it takes a cast-iron occiput to dive into the fray
That blazes every evening like a napalmed ammo barn,
When they spin sea stories gruesome; each one a classic yarn.
Anchors aweigh, tailpipes aglow;
War stories never die!

Heroes of the past still soar, although in ghostly thread,
Like the first test Frisbee pilot whose gyroscope went dead.
And the F-11 driver whose luck had turned dark brown:
The shells that he had fired - caught up, and shot him down.
Anchors aweigh, tailpipes aglow;
Anecdotes of the sky!

But these were nothing half so grim as the tale of one F-4
That blasted off a catapult on the bleak New Jersey shore.
Where once the fabled  Hindenburg  lighted up the night,
This battle-weary Phantom jet took off on its last flight.
Anchors aweigh, tailpipes aglow;
Lakehurst is never dry!

Full of secret hardware, old one-five-five-sev'n-eight
Roared off into the fog, then failed to elevate!
"Flameout", said the pilot, when they plucked him from a tree.
But "flameout" never did explain the absence of debris.
Anchors aweigh, tailpipes aglow;
New legend of the sky!

Unlike the flying Dutchman, which is seen without its crew,
No trace of wreckage could be found, excepting just one clue:
A secret radar module, about six inches square
Was found beneath the pilot's tree, as if it were put there!
Anchors aweigh, tailpipes aglow;
Without radar, you can't fly!

But to this day, five-seven-eight, its radar finally right
Without the secret module, patrols the gloomy night.
A legend now, when fog rolls in above the Jersey mud,
The phantom Phantom, still aloft, screams past and chills the blood!
Anchors aweigh, tailpipes aglow;
Ghost Phantom in the sky!

- partially based on a partially true event!
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from TechRep Ballads
RP

Thanks to Mudcat for the Digital Tradition!