Here we go, once more unto the breach dear friends...
Or close up the wall with our multicultural dead,
In QC, there's nothing so becomes a maid
As a white tank top;
But when the blast of Indie Music blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the [eye of the] tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-to get to know barriers;
Then lend the eye a terrible prescription;
Let pry through the portage of the head
...
On, on, you noblest North Hamptonites.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of 90-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even sought
And found their bars for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to file library books. And you, good barrista,
Whose limbs were made in Georgia, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lust in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Dora, Coffee of Doom, and Pintsize!'