"Tate whatcha do, it's the way Hatch a do it," sang You Foo Too. "Cut out the corny Muzk," growled Hu flung Huey, "It makes my Ayres stand on end."
"Army," sighed You Foo Too, 'nothing I do lis right. Waddell's the matter with you? Why don't you quit Maupin around? Roll the Farrell, we're are going to win 40 too."
"Berry well," said the Sage," you've Mazur bed, now you can lie in it. As Ferris I can see, it'll be Harvard 13, cadets 7. Anyway, leave the predictions to me and you Gardella."
"Guard her?" sneered You Foe Too. "I could Kelleher."