Upon the tale of Dents Run gold, we gather 'round, the story old,
Where FBI in shroud of night, made off with Civil War delight.
He thinks they took his rightful due, the gold that sparkled, pure and true,
Like ale unseen yet full of might, lost in the cold, foreboding night.
In lofty halls of wealth and greed, advisers pray on coin's sweet need,
They nay the eager, plead their case, seek not the gold for gold's base face.
'Tis said they leave jobs fraught with strife, conflicted 'bout this worldly life,
Like monks who spurn the vine's sweet yield, find greater worth in humble field.
In bold defiance of the law, three men with treasure in their jaw,
Battle the FBI with hope, their dreaming hearts with bounty cope.
In Penn's hallowed, earthen breast, they claim was loot of gilded crest,
Like saints who fight for holy ground, seek truth in God, and thus are bound.
