| Hold the milk, put back the sugar
|
| They are powerless to console
|
| We’ve gathered here to sprinkle ashes
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| From our late friend’s cereal bowl.
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| Breakfast Clubbers, say the motto
|
| That he taught us to repeat:
|
| «You will lose it in your gym class if you wait till' noon to eat.»
|
| Back when the Chess Club, said our eggs were soft
|
| Every Monday he’d say grace and hold our juice aloft
|
| Oh, none of us knew his checkout time would come so soon
|
| But before his brain stopped waving, he composed this tune:
|
| Chorus:
|
| When the toast is burned,
|
| And all the milk has turned
|
| And Cap’n Crunch is wavin' farewell.
|
| When the big one finds you
|
| May this song remind you
|
| That they don’t serve breakfast, in Hell.
|
| Breakfast clubbers, drop the hankies
|
| Though to some our friend was odd,
|
| that day he bought those pine pajamas
|
| His check was good with God.
|
| Those here without the Lord,
|
| How do you cope?
|
| For this morning we don’t mourn
|
| Like those who have no hope.
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| Oh rise up, Fruit Loop lovers-
|
| Sing out sweet and low
|
| With spoons held high
|
| We bid our brother «Cheerio!»
|
| chorus (repeat til fade) |