Clarkson University Amateur Radio Club

Listen, Oh, studes,
And I will relate
Why the shack back of Tech
Reposes in state;
Why the antenna swaying,
Idle in the breeze,
No longer gives forth
Its midnight wheeze;
Why the lights along Pierrepont
No longer flicker
With the stuttering starts
Of Birdie’s ticker.

For Birdie is gone
From his cluttered cell
And the coils of junk
That he loved so well.
His paragon tuners
On the shelf repose;
His detector tube
No longer glows
Out into the night
Dispelling the gloom
While KDKA’S program
Resounds through the room.

A pioneer bold
He proved to be,
Chasing at random
The wireless mystery.
Window glass condensers
Immersed in kerosene,
A spark gap propelled by
A motor from a washing machine,
And other makeshifts
Birdie employed;
But he got success
Others rarely enjoyed.

But now he is gone
To pastures new,
Where the tubes he blows
Are not a few.
He revels in radio
To his heart’s content;
And glad is he
For the hours he spent
In the radio shack
In the rear of Tech
Immersed in home-mades
Up to his neck.

For what was a hobby
A job has become,
And work and play
Are combined in one.
Old friend Davis
Is lonesome, too;
No longer does
The air grow blue
When amidst music,
Sweet and thin,
“B. B. B.” comes
Roaring in.

The first radio service station
In the land
Carries on its duties
Under Birdie’s command.
It’s pluck and initiative
And plenty of sand
That puts the Teachers
Where they stand.
and, you at Clarkson,
Keep in your mind
Ours is the best little college
The world can find.

-EFF-E-BEE