with clash of drums
the Last Marimba comes
pulled it to its spot
atop the parking lot

the Drum Major conducts, standing tall
the Band snaps to attention at her call
leads the Band on and off the field
when they are coming, all others must yield

then marches the Band
with instruments in hand
as music from their lips raises
each Section sings its praises:

Color Guard scrambles to set up flags
yank them out of respective bags
dropspins, butterflies, tosses galore
though getting tired, they always work more

the Flutes, with silver music sticks
held to rest on puckered lips
each note is amazingly shrill
but still we marvel at their skill

Clarinets, the largest group of reeds
they will play until their mouth bleeds
the music they make is pleasant and mellow
a Clarinet will not ever bellow

mellow still, by name implied
the Mellophones through their sets glide
the music they play is interesting and fun
they switch to French Horn when Marching Season's done

Saxophones, link between woodwind and brass
they can play softly; they do not always blast
intricate notes, fingering quickly
marching difficult sets slickly

the Trombones exercise their right arms
creating music with their slides' charms
the longest instruments in the lines
marching with perfectly straight spines

the Tubas tote enormous instruments
where their shoulders have been are dents
lumbering along to get to their places
deep notes' air swelling in their faces

Euphoniums follow, Tuba's offspring
to their similar instruments they cling
hefted up in clumsy imitation
their parent instruments their inspiration

the Trumpets, brash and blaring horns
wake us up on early Band morns
playing loudly, marching back
of dressing lines, there is often a lack

Drumline, playing Bass or Snare
the Drum Room is their secret lair
they march differently, often having to crab
but only because their normal marching's so bad

but the Pit's already been up there
with just one Vibe, but Cymbals, a pair
a set of chimes, and several drums
and finally, the Last Marimba comes