Song of the Walters, before his last battle
Warriors and chiefs! should the shaft or the spitball
Pierce me in leading the host of the music department,
Heed not the corse, though a teacher’s in your path:
Bury your spitballs in the bosoms Mariah hath!
Thou who art bearing my clarinet and saxophone,
Should the soldiers of MMU look away from Elsa,
Stretch me that moment in wet paper at thy feet!
Mine be the doom which Johannes dared not to meet.
Farewell to Nate, but never we part,
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart!
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway,
Or kingly the spitballs, which await us to-day!
Pierce me in leading the host of the music department,
Heed not the corse, though a teacher’s in your path:
Bury your spitballs in the bosoms Mariah hath!
Thou who art bearing my clarinet and saxophone,
Should the soldiers of MMU look away from Elsa,
Stretch me that moment in wet paper at thy feet!
Mine be the doom which Johannes dared not to meet.
Farewell to Nate, but never we part,
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart!
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway,
Or kingly the spitballs, which await us to-day!