John Bell Hood

When John Bell Hood led men into battle
He was the king of death's angry domain.
He rode like a knight, scorning the rattle
Of gunfire dealing its quick death or pain.
To him bullets were gnats and Yanks cattle
He'd drive before him with righteous disdain.

Back home in Richmond Sally Preston turned
And  banished Hood's name with a haughty glance.
"He's a clumsy bear, he's crude and unlearned.
 I want a man with finesse who can dance."

"Come on boys, we'll make them Yanks skedaddle!"
At Gettysburg Hood's confident voice soared
Above the fray.  Conspicuous in battle
On horseback, with eyes steel hard as his sword,
A shellburst knocked him from his saddle.
A shattered arm became bravery's reward.

"In love with Hood?  Absurd," Sally sighed.
"I'd rather have my heart impaled on a lance
Than choose to become that loud Texan's bride.
I want a rich man who can laugh and dance."

By September Hood was back in the saddle.
His left arm was useless; his good hand gripped
The reins as he led troops into battle,
To Chickamauga, where minie balls stripped
Leaves from the trees, where a surgeon astraddle
A bench, from Hood his mangled leg ripped.

"Engaged to General Hood?  Don't get me riled,"
Sally scolded.  "Poor John, he hasn't a chance.
I'd rather by brutal bluecoats be defiled.
I want a man who will laugh and can dance."

Constantly in pain, strapped to his saddle
Now to help him stay in it, John Bell Hood
Led his men to Atlanta for battle.
He had to stop the Yankees if he could.
Sherman's troops threatened Atlanta, and would
With a victory, sound Dixie's death rattle.

"He's such a brave man," admitted Sally.
"I hope he can stop the Yankee advance.
But he's not the man with whom I would dally,
I'm holding out for a man who can dance."

Hood and his men were too few and too tired
To manage more than to annoy their foe.
On to Nashville, where their last hope was mired.
He rallied his troops for one final blow,
But when the smoke cleared, their hopes had expired;
His army was crushed.  He'd no place to go.

"We'll not be married," said Sal feigning sorrow.
"War's slaughtered so many dreams of romance.
 He's maimed, poor, with no hopes for the morrow,
 And I still want my rich man who can dance."