I'm cleaning out docs at work and I found a neat little ditty I must've transcribed right after this last frucon. I don't remember exactly why we started singing it, but that last line in the verse stems from a very silly evening.
You’re the last of a breed, the endangered Fruhead
Piled up watching videos on somebody’s bed
A convention was planned, a convention was held
There’s a new notch on your belt.
From sheer lack of sleep, you feel high as a kite,
No chance of getting any words right
Mr. Jones, Mr. Tate, Mr. Larson…
There’s a lovely tenderloin waiting to be stuffed,
There’s a psycho host who’d prefer Dave in the buff
Dancin’ round the kitchen with the pork in her hand,
Now you’ve nearly lost command,
From sheer lack of sleep, you feel high as a kite,
No chance of getting any words right
Mr. Jones, Mr. Tate, Mr. Larson…
