The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
of the big lake they call Gitchee Gumee.
It’s been helped along by the great Lightfoot song.
‘Twas a big hit even though it’s gloomy.

Nineteen fifty-eight, thirteen thousand tons weight
was the Edmund Fitzgerald’s gross launching.
And every man knew as the Captain did too
‘twould be iron ore it would be bunching.

The ship was the pride of the American side
though Canadians did not act so jealous.
The tale Lightfoot told, some mistakes did unfold.
Should’ve gotten them right for to tell us.

A hardy old bird from New York’s Ogdensburg
was the captain named Ernest McSorley.
This ship in his hands was his tenth to command.
‘Twas retiring, but should have done early.

In seventy-five, twenty-nine men left alive
from Superior, town in Wisconsin.
Across lake of same name, and toward Huron, but shame:
Thirty-five-foot waves soon would be tossin’.

The pellets of ore meant for Detroit’s shore
though in Gord’s song, ‘twere headed for Cleveland.
But the hurricane wind from the west did them in.
‘Twas the Witch of November come stealin’.

McSorley took the phone, said, “We’re holding our own.”
‘Twas the famous last words, around seven.
The big ship did split, and the bottom it hit
sending twenty-nine swabbies to heaven.

To Sault Ste. Marie, it was never to be.
That safe harbor denied by their peril.
The Bay of Whitefish wouldn’t give them their wish
and so wrecked was the Edmund Fitzgerald.

McSorley did know where the transport boats go
but the waves turned the minutes to hours.
You’d better believe their loved ones were bereaved.
No one to save them with super-powers.

Seems petty to say lyrics went some astray
as Gord didn’t quite get on the right foot.
But good sentiment was the honest intent
of the song that was written by Lightfoot.

Titanic hit ice, Lusitania’s not nice.
Fire claimed Eastland and General Slocum.
Morro Castle burned, and then later in turn
Andrea Doria hit by Stockholm.

And I must demand note from Staten Island
of the foolish pilot of a ferry.
‘Twas not enough sleep for the pilot, that creep
killed 11 on Andrew J. Barberi.

On Jefferson Avenue stands a marker of blue
at the Mariner’s Church – not “Cathedral.”
That Detroit sign is a twenty-nine remind
of the men lost on Edmund Fitzgerald.

The legend lives on from old Lightfoot on down
but on this fortieth anniversary
the story that’s true should be full-known to you.
On the sailors may the Great Lakes have mercy.