Of all the Mashers was left not one;
'Twas complete annihilation.
And they buried them there, where they first were born,
With gardenias on them clustered—
In the mashing garbs that they long had worn—
Near the stalls where they'd nightly mustered.
Blithely and gaily they laid them down,
Nor heard was a sob nor a sigh there;
And they carved not a line and they raised not a stone—
For the Mashers were worthy of neither!