‘Twas the night before band camp, and all the band geeks
--Who’d been counting the months and the days and the weeks--
Were sleepless with anticipation galore.
They just couldn’t wait to start marching once more.
They’d practiced their music (well, one time or two)
And polished their horns ‘til they glistened like new.
They’d nearly all tried to make band seem nearer
By chair-stepping solo in front of the mirror.
They’d listened to all their old band CDs ‘til
They had memorized every last oom-pah and trill.
They’d watched the old videos and DVDs,
And yelled at the screen, “Call that ninety degrees?!”
They’d packed up their sunscreen and aloe gel too,
Mosquito repellent, each black marching shoe,
Their lyres and their chapstick, valve oil and cork grease.
And they finally all lay their heads down in peace.
When they fell fast asleep, all was quiet, it seemed,
But the poor bandies tossed and they turned as they dreamed
Of the scariest FMB words e’er revealed:
“Okay, you guys! Time for pregame! Off the field!”
