by R.R. Tucci, with apologies to the ghost of Wilson Meredith (Music Man lyrics here)
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Well, ya got trouble, my friend.
Right here, I say trouble right here in Jersey City
Why, sure, I’m a stringy player
Certainly mighty proud to say,
I’m always mighty proud to say it
I consider the hours I spend pulling out all my hair are golden
Help you cultivate horse sense and a cool head and a keen eye
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Now, folks, let me show you what I mean
You’ve got one, two, infinitely many stringy vacua
vacua that mark the difference between a gentleman and a bum
With a capital ‘B’ and that rhymes with ‘Stree’ and that stands for ‘String’
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And all week long, your Jersey City youth’ll be fritterin’ away
I say, your young men’ll be fritterin’
Fritterin’ away their noontime, suppertime, choretime, too
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Ya got trouble, folks, right here in Jersey City
with a capital ‘T’ and that rhymes with ‘Stree’
and that stands for ‘String’
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May I have your attention, please? Attention, please
I can deal with this trouble, friends,
with the wave of my hand, this very hand
Please observe me, if you will I’m Professor Harold Hill
and I’m here to organize a quantum computer band
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Oh think, my friends, how can any stringy guess
ever hope to compete with a gold Q comp
Rah, rah, rah-da-da-da-da, rah-rah
Remember, my friends, what a handful of Apple players
did to the famous, fabled walls of I B M
Oh, corporation walls come a-tumblin’ down
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Oh, a band’ll do it, my friends, oh yes
I said a Q C band, do you hear me?
I say Jersey City’s gotta have a Q C band
and I mean she needs it today
Well, Professor Harold Hill’s on hand
and Jersey City’s gonna have her Q C band
Just as sure as the Lord made little green apples
and that band’s gonna be in uniform