SONG OF THE CLASSES



Oh, we are the freshmen who sit over there

We were nursed by our mothers before we came here

We miss our dear bottle and sad for to tell

We soon will be busted right out of Cornell



Then it's one, two, and three, four

We all fall in line

To the tune of our profs

We must always keep time

And it's work like a Turk

Till your eyes ache like Hell

In the grand institution

This school of Cornell



Oh, we are the sophomores with debonair look

Our vile freshman manners we now have forsook

We sport round the town with the boys of our age

And don't give a damn for the co-eds at Sage



We are the junior a smoking our pipe

Our mood mellow out over lager and tripe

We know about Zincks and the others full well

We've not been a wasting our time at Cornell



Oh we are the senior, a taking our ease

We cut recitations whenever we please

We go to the theatre and cut quite a swell

For soon we'll be leaving this school of Cornell



Oh we are the hangovers, we hang over here

We don't like the freshmen, the sophomores are queers

We don't give a damn for the whole junior class

And as for the seniors, they can all kiss our ...



@college @Cornell

Notes:

busted = flunked

Sage = was once the women's college, now graduate dorm

Zincks = local bar

hangover = fifth year undergraduate

filename[ CRNLCLAS

SF

===DOCUMENT BOUNDARY