‘Twas the night before Charles
Up and down the river,
Not a flywheel was spinning
All nerves were a quiver.
The rowers were home
With carbs on their plates,
And the race on their minds,
With thoughts of their rate.
And all through Cambridge
There was quiet chatter
Of Winning,
And Weeks turns,
And all rowing matters.
The guys from '65
Reminisced their first showing,
Now fifty years later,
It's the Christmas of rowing!
When rose the sun,
The course came alive,
Ports, starboards and scullers,
In their pre-race jive,
Then heard up in stern,
From the coxswain, with sage,
"Happy Birthday, dear Charles, you look good for your age!”
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