At clock strick' 12 times three from now, when Houston's eye skews nigh sky high at mighty Corps afield.
All eyes aloft, peer just above, to Coach Dan Quinn's Commands. For Us, For them; For We alone, the Final Say approachés
That each and every Countryman turns gaze; To meditate and gauge the worth of We, of He and all His soldiers.
To Coach Dan Quinn we gift our Guts, to Birds of prey, to feast, That he may animate our Corps, in resolute defense;
Against the unfamiliar hosts, a whoop, a sudden shriek repels, "Arise! (Uprise)!" it calls, it Caws for Quinn to bring Salvation.
The screech absolves, convicts alike, An instrument of He on High, of He Supreme, A mighty screech for Mighty Quinn, a screech to Purge our Bosoms.
Yet Tyranny may acquiesce, abject Defeat may Wake at Once, its fragile slumber shattered. "The Dynasty" the unborn Fates whisk rotten spoilage through the currents; "Without Victories" The unrepentents clad, in blue and gold and black and white and Other derelicted Fashions... A screech again, a flash!
Again the hordes hear naught, but We, the dirty birds catch sound. The call imports we Now divest our Bosoms!
"Brethrenship!" We hear and we dispense, hold Falcon Kin in praise and Thought, That now, that They who may, who might, deliver us as birds in flight
Uncaged to drop our curdled parcels, each for those who doubted!
Belligerent the horde demands "To Whom!" "With Whom?" they wail; "For Us?" in bated breath "For Whom?". Puissant "Ju Hoo!" the Drafts shriek back, the devil brains now muzzle,
At Helm our Coach Dan Quinn Precedes in bond unbound, in Brotherhood, we rise; Amongst his Cast our vessels Bleed. We rise For Victory.