Drink Drink Brüdelein Drink: An Ode to WO

-- with apologies to a Christmas classic

'Twas the night before concert and all through Welsh Hills,

Not a brain cell was sober -- and least of all Bill's.

His Singers were sloshed over here, over there;

Careening or leaning, or too crocked to care.

No, these vocal vessels weren't nestled in beds,

With visions of perfect Brahms schtük in zehr heads.

"No pencils, no practice: Tonight vee vill trink!"

Said Mickey, and Ricky and Bob turning pink.

So drinken und drunken did all of us get...

WO's noodle was strüdel; his shirt was so wet

That we thought it was already Sunday – indeed,

That the concert had started with WO all up-keyed.

As a matter of fact, it seems WO is again

Making gurgles and noises... no wait, that's the gin

Trickling down the WO's throat with some tonic to boot;

(Or was that a scotch, making Armitage toot?)

For years we've imbibed, in great Singers tradition,

As though we were on a half-century mission.

"Drink, Langner! Drink, Gentner! Drink Joy Worcester Hire!

Drink, Masten and Needham! Drink like you're on fire!

"On, Cummings! On, Kauffman! On, Mixter and Billin!

On, Finney! On, Harler-Smith! No time for chillin'!

John Leistler, Jon Gibson, John Butterfield, too!

Go Vanderlinde, Allison, Walker – Woohoo!"

But wait! Whence did cometh this yen for a snort?

Who taught us as youths to good liquor exhort?

Who schooled us to the less-traveled road take,

To detour, and straight-and-narrow forsake?

Ah, yes! We remember now: It was the WO

Who gave us the green light, who told us to go

Forth and prosper – and drink, of course! That was the way

We got to this moment. We know why they say:

"His eyes -- how they twinkle! His dimples, how merry!

His cheeks are like roses; his nose like a cherry!"

So bring on the music and bring on the booze:

With WO at the helm we've got nothing to lose.

A wink of WO's eye and a twist of his head

Soon gives us to know we have nothing to dread.

Thus, to our joint icon we raise high the glass:

"To WO, Singers Patriarch: Nothin' but class!"

-- by the alter ego of Bob Palmer, '73