Woe Is the IBC

Twas once a sultry morn,
‘Midst a summer since forgotten,

The Holy Spirit lay torn,
O’er three dyre souls so rotten,

Twas they who formed the pact,
They said should ne’r be broken,

‘Til Old Man Winter attacked,
Rendering the bond a simple token,

Oh once they met with urgency,
And voiced their hearts with glee,

Oh once they met with fervency,
And sang with jubilee,

But woe are we, both B and C,
Whilst ye doth digit’ly woo,

What strange a fate, we could not see,
Ye traded three faces for two,

This smuggler of fraternity,
Yet we haven’t even seen her,

Hath yoked us for eternity,
With one named master bay tina,

And so we sit with grundles bared,
And long for June’s return,

With hopes our prodigal is spared,
‘Til then our hearts doth yearn.

Woe is the IBC.

January '04