This is a tribute to the flutie I marched next to for the whole show. She is the reason I march as well as I do, the reason I respect woodwinds (part of the reason, anyway) and the reason I bowed to the flautist. Every band has someone like her, and this is not just for my own judge but for the one in every band.
~~~~~~~~~
"You're too far back."
Constantly you criticize me.
You drive me to distraction,
I'm telling you, you'll be the death of me
More likely than the Drum Majors.
"You're not dressing front."
The line-leader sucks.
He's an idiot. He can't march.
I'm the only one in the damn H-line that can.
I KNOW I have to dress front!
"Roll your feet right."
I'm losing my mind, girl!
Stop treating me like I don't know what I'm doing!
I'm not that much worse than you!
You don't stop. You can't stop.
It's like a sickness, but whether it's you or me that's sick...
I don't know.
"Glide!"
Sometimes I can't stand you.
The way you point out every chink in my armor,
The way you beat my ego into the
Sprinkler-soaked ground.
I'm not mud.
You don't make me feel much better than it.
"You aren't smooth enough."
I'm still better than the others.
I was always better than them.
Why won't you criticize them, not me?
Your remarks don't sting so much.
Not anymore.
You're giving me armor, girl.
"I can tell you're working."
What's this?
Something almost nice?
I don't know what to do.
Give me a sip of your Coke.
No, I guess I'm not good enough for that.
"You're getting better."
I'm never confused anymore.
Not when it comes to marching.
I guessed you helped me, flutie.
I march through the mud.
I step in the trombones when need be.
Aren't you proud?
"You didn't make any horrible mistakes at the game."
The final game.
I did all right.
You helped me do that, didn't you?
You drove me insane.
You killed my ego.
You made me hate you, after a fashion.
And you wouldn't give me any Coke.
Sometimes I love your kind, flutie. Sometimes we all do.
~~~~~~~~~
"You're too far back."
Constantly you criticize me.
You drive me to distraction,
I'm telling you, you'll be the death of me
More likely than the Drum Majors.
"You're not dressing front."
The line-leader sucks.
He's an idiot. He can't march.
I'm the only one in the damn H-line that can.
I KNOW I have to dress front!
"Roll your feet right."
I'm losing my mind, girl!
Stop treating me like I don't know what I'm doing!
I'm not that much worse than you!
You don't stop. You can't stop.
It's like a sickness, but whether it's you or me that's sick...
I don't know.
"Glide!"
Sometimes I can't stand you.
The way you point out every chink in my armor,
The way you beat my ego into the
Sprinkler-soaked ground.
I'm not mud.
You don't make me feel much better than it.
"You aren't smooth enough."
I'm still better than the others.
I was always better than them.
Why won't you criticize them, not me?
Your remarks don't sting so much.
Not anymore.
You're giving me armor, girl.
"I can tell you're working."
What's this?
Something almost nice?
I don't know what to do.
Give me a sip of your Coke.
No, I guess I'm not good enough for that.
"You're getting better."
I'm never confused anymore.
Not when it comes to marching.
I guessed you helped me, flutie.
I march through the mud.
I step in the trombones when need be.
Aren't you proud?
"You didn't make any horrible mistakes at the game."
The final game.
I did all right.
You helped me do that, didn't you?
You drove me insane.
You killed my ego.
You made me hate you, after a fashion.
And you wouldn't give me any Coke.
Sometimes I love your kind, flutie. Sometimes we all do.