A Bud with lime
tastes a lot like shite—
it’s got no taste,
colorless-light.
I’d rather do
shots of Tequil’…
drunk outa my mind,
and then get ill.
Chug on, chug on,
not haltingly,
get tight.

Now, drinkin’ brew,
that ain’t for me.
Me studyin’
you’ll never see.
I’m in a crew
with open mouths.
Our claim to fame:
shots flowin’ south,
as in the House (Animal, that is).
Campus colleagues call us dimwits,
something they should all eschew…
say we should focus on studies,
but that ain’t what we do.
They say we’re bad, just sad f*ckoffs.
We’re really sad, so sad, they scoff and crow.
We’re really bad, so bad, they scoff and crow.
They call us a “jerk crew,”
too often plowed.
But we don’t want them as friends;
their rap don’t get us down.

Our gruesome pong
is from throwin’ up.
We hit the bong
and get real high.
Joe, give me a light;
I’m tokin’ up,
close eyes to sight
then fall asleep.
The dean of men’s
makin’ no bones
on where he stands:
He has about reached his limit
with nonacademic crew.
So he threatens an annulment
of all the things we do.

Because he’s mad, he’s mad, pissed off.
He is so mad, he’s mad, fuse set to blow
He is so mad, he’s mad, dude’s set to blow

He’s gonna make us answer, that’s his vow…
tells us over and again, we’re bad.
He says, we’re gonna feel sorrow;
the music we’ll have to face.

Then he goes on with his braying,
and our hearts start to race.
“You won’t be grads! That’s what he scoffs.
We won’t be grads?! No grads—say it ain’t so!
We won’t be grads?! No grads for us—oh no!

Ah, but we have an answer to his vow:
It involves the payment of some cash.
We give him swag, some cash—a lot!
We give him cash, then give some more.
A lot of cash he’s set to score.

Then he conveniently forgets his vow.
As the year comes to an end,
we’re grads.
We’re grads!