A smokey baby-powder cloud explodes in the black night sky
Field lights flood the field
First time you've pulled out that old worn sweatshirt, finally chilly enough
They run onto the field
Like a pack of blue and black wolves
hungry for the win
Wooping, chanting, yelling
The speaker boasts the first game
On Walt Whitman's home field
We fill the metal stands, they rattle under our thunder
Not knowing who's next to you
the Dance Team Captain, the Oboe Player,
the Chemistry Teacher's pet.
But what does that matter?
This is our team. This is our school.