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 ... Notes: busted = flunked Sage = was once the women's college, now graduate dorm Zincks = local bar hangover = fifth year undergraduate SOF
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