Rush Mights
(1T’S ALL IN THE POINT OF VIEW. )
The day I remember the best, tra la,
Is one that I love to recall,
When all of us loudly professed, tra la,
A desire to rush On through the Hall.
They told you to march two abreast, tra la,
So you clutched someone’s shoulders with zest, tra la,
Yelling words that are ever unguessed, tra la,
(As the girl they were pinned to was tall.)
The Sophomores made such a roar, tra la,
That you couldn’t hear yourself croak.
They taunted with posters and gore, tra la,
Missing no innuendo or joke.
You dreaded each stairway and door, tra la,
You seldom put foot to the floor, tra la,
And the Sophomores, fearing to bore, tra la,
In your ear noises queer would poke.
When we got to the Arch of our Dream, tra la,
We were scarlet, untidy, and hoarse.
I have heard “things are Not what they Seem,” tra la,
So I guess that nobody used force.
“Miss” Maltby emerged from the stream, tra la,
And helped us to scream as a team, tra la,
And finding that We were the Cream, TRA LA,
We got stuck on ourselves, of course.
