THE WRECK OF THE EDMUND FITZGERALD  ( Gordon Lightfoot )


CHORD: Aadd9: X02200


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The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down,
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Of the big lake they call "Gitche Gumee"
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The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead,
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When the skies of November turn gloomy.
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With a load of iron ore twenty six thousand tons more
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Than the Edmond Fitzgerald weighed empty,
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That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed,
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When the gales of November came early


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The ship was the pride of the American side
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Coming back from some mill in Wisconsin.
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As the big freighters go it was bigger than most
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With a crew and good captain well-seasoned.
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Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
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When they left fully loaded for Cleveland.
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And later that night when the ship's bell rang
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Could it be the north wind they'd been feeling?


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The wind in the wires made a tattletale sound
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And a wave broke over the railing
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And every man knew as the captain did too
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Twas the witch of November come stealing.
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The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait 
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When the gales of November came slashing.
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When afternoon came it was freezing rain 
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In the face of a hurricane west wind.


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When suppertime came the old cook came on deck saying:
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"Fellas, it's too rough to feed you."
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At seven p.m. a main hatchway caved in, he said:
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"Fellas, it's been good to know you."
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The captain wired in he had water coming in
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And the good ship and crew was in peril.
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And later that night when his lights went out of sight 
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Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.


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Does anyone know where the love of God goes
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When the waves turn the minutes to hours?
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The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
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If they'd put fifteen more miles behind her.
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They might have split up or they might have capsized
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They may have broke deep and took water.
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And all that remains is the faces and the names
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Of the wives and the sons and the daughters.


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Lake Huron rolls, Superior swings in
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In the rooms of her ice-water mansion.
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Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams
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The island and bays are for sportsmen.
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And farther below Lake Ontario
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Takes in what Lake Erie can send her.
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And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
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With the gales of November remembered.


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In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed
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In the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral.
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The church bell chimed till it rang twenty nine times
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For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.
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The legend lives on from the Chippewa on
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Down of the big lake they called Gitche Gumee.
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"Superior", they said, "never gives up her dead"
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"When the gales of November come early."