| Almost midnight!
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| Enough time for one more story
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| A small clipper ship drew toward land
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| Suddenly, out of the night, the fog rolled in
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| They could see nothing, not a foot ahead of them
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| And then, they saw a light
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| My God, it was a fire burning on the shore
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| Strong enough to penetrate the swirling mist
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| They steered a course toward the light
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| But it was a campfire, like this one
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| The ship crashed against the rocks
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| The hull sheared in two, the mast snapped like a twig
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| And the wreckage sank with all the men aboard
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| At the bottom of the sea lay the Elizabeth Dane with her crew
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| Their eyes open and staring into the darkness
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| There lay the Elizabeth Dane with her crew
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| But it is told by the fishermen and their fathers and grandfathers
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| That when the fog returns to Antonio Bay, the men at the bottom of the sea
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| Out in the water by Spivey Point, will rise up and search for the campfire
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| That led them to their dark, icy death
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| And above, as suddenly as it had come, the fog lifted
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| Receded back across the ocean and never came again
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| Twelve o’clock
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| The 21st of April |