With her hair tucked tight underneath her hat,
Her heart pounds as she prepares for combat.
Her pant pleats are sharp as a razor blade.
Her coat neatly pressed to lead the brigade.
Her buttons and shoes are buffed and spit shined.
She wears bright white gloves to look more refined.
A pale complexion and wide blue eyed glare,
Her primed game face says opponents beware.
The black and red colors she wears with pride.
Her school spirit soars as she steps outside.
Once she is dressed to parade block she’s called.
The drumline’s fierce cadence keeps her enthralled.
She marches in line a straight eight by five.
The rhythm she keeps makes her feel alive.
Her mellophone poised above parallel.
The tune that it carries boosts your morale.
In secret, some call her band geek or nerd,
But her confidence still is undeterred.
As the game begins the band takes their seats.
Instruments blare at the rivals retreats.
Throughout the game from the band shell you hear
“Hang on Sloopy” or school battle cry cheer.
The stadium lights fuel her need for fame.
She’d be a star if it weren’t for that game.
Patiently she waits for the quarter’s end
In her heart, she knows why the fans attend.
She feels compassion for the football team,
Since the truth would quell their gridiron dream.
It’s not the sport the fans think is so grand.
It’s the superb score of the marching band.
Laugh if you will, she claims, truth is sublime.
One-day football will be played at halftime.
