Another long morning approaches
it's sleepy participants.
Alarm clock,
Five in the morning,
Putting on our practice clothes.
It's all for the greater good
of marching band kind.
Color guard comes in late
they still get to the field the fastest.
Saxophones get caught between the rolling pit
and end up having to help.
Drumline gets out of everything,
except for warm-up time.
The drum major makes us laugh,
when she falls over from time to time.
Sometimes a trombone runs the warm-ups,
but never the guard.
That's okay,
we do it on our own.
The band director flies out onto the field
with our hateful friend,
the metronome.
The trumpets think they have it
The drumline is all wrong.
The guard is messed up by the counts
The flutes all take too long.
We set our sets, back field and front.
Drumline gets to be the center,
Low brass is upfront.
Drum major counts us off
Pride is awfully loud,
Mrs. Britton stands on the bleachers,
to hear and see our sound.
We perform our show
in the heat of the Arizona sun
and the dry grass of the unused varsity baseball field.
Faster and faster we go,
Song through song it ends,
Drumline here,
Step with toe in ground,
Expanding spheres
That is loved by band, not guard.
The show is long
But really short.
It soon all ends at nine o'clock.
Back to the band room, to put the stuff away.
Watch your step around the room
People are succoring to get ready.
Away from band,
we lose sleep for class,
but it's okay,
because we love our marching band.
it's sleepy participants.
Alarm clock,
Five in the morning,
Putting on our practice clothes.
It's all for the greater good
of marching band kind.
Color guard comes in late
they still get to the field the fastest.
Saxophones get caught between the rolling pit
and end up having to help.
Drumline gets out of everything,
except for warm-up time.
The drum major makes us laugh,
when she falls over from time to time.
Sometimes a trombone runs the warm-ups,
but never the guard.
That's okay,
we do it on our own.
The band director flies out onto the field
with our hateful friend,
the metronome.
The trumpets think they have it
The drumline is all wrong.
The guard is messed up by the counts
The flutes all take too long.
We set our sets, back field and front.
Drumline gets to be the center,
Low brass is upfront.
Drum major counts us off
Pride is awfully loud,
Mrs. Britton stands on the bleachers,
to hear and see our sound.
We perform our show
in the heat of the Arizona sun
and the dry grass of the unused varsity baseball field.
Faster and faster we go,
Song through song it ends,
Drumline here,
Step with toe in ground,
Expanding spheres
That is loved by band, not guard.
The show is long
But really short.
It soon all ends at nine o'clock.
Back to the band room, to put the stuff away.
Watch your step around the room
People are succoring to get ready.
Away from band,
we lose sleep for class,
but it's okay,
because we love our marching band.