It's no go the scotch eggs, it's no go the yak,

All we want is eight cuisines on order at Cafe Mac;

The buildings all are new, the buildings all are fancy,

Poured on Digest stocks, such foundations may be chancy.
 

Maria Baker's lost her job, her PO Box is empty;

She clears her desk and bums one last cig from Laurie Hamre.

Left choking on Macalester and its grand Old Scots Tradition,

She finds her Irish ancestry, checks down the road for a position.
 

It's no go the highland games, it's no go the dancing,

If it doesn't look good in the college lit., it's not worth the ransom.
 

The endowment's gone, the funding's cut, the Administration's in a twitter;

When financial aid's been halved and tuition raised there's no one to be bitter:

The PR machine's been out recruiting, they've been on the prowl since dawn,

Posting up their guilt-trip-cum-reminders: who pays what and when for all such litter.
 

It's no go the morning bagpipes, it's no go the tartans;

The student body wants amenities, they're not used to being Spartan.

The students want their cell phones, the students want their Diesel:

School's a bitch, the trustees worse, there's nought to do but tease 'em.