02-03-59, That Day The Music Died Poem by John F. McCullagh

"That'll be the day" he sang, the boy the crowd adored.
Then he took flight from that place to go play for the Lord.

The singers died on impact, they lay still where they were found
The twisted wreckage of their plane lay scattered all around;
the wicked whistle of the wind; a hollow, mocking sound.

Three minstrels dead, the papers said, the day after they went down.
Other, lesser, voices mourned as we placed them in the ground.

Do you recall where you were when you heard the news and cried?
The sad news of Buddy Holly's fate, the day the music died.