That’s the same problem I have been having.
Fiddler’s Green
Half way down the trail to Hell
In a shady, meadow green,
Are the souls of all dead troopers camped
Near a good, old-time canteen,
And this eternal resting place
Is known as Fiddler’s 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
Dismount at Fiddler’s 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 Fiddler’s Green.
And so when horse and man go down
Beneath a saber keen,
Or in a roaring charge or fierce melee
You stop a bullet clean,
And the hostiles come to get your scalp
Just empty your canteen,
And put your pistol to your head
And go to Fiddler’s Green.