My drummer, drummer, boy.

It just seems impossible to me. the words, "Ralph Kotches is dead," strike like a metal-gloved hand across the face.  How long ago was it anyway, that way=ward fun-loving soul drummed up the roars of thunder with that smile on his face saying "got a plan, got a plan, hey man, got a plan, you won't even BELIEVE it!"

Ralph Kotches is dead, and one day, too, I shall follow.  

So my drummer, drummer boy, my friend, 

drum me into the halls at the end, 

of where I was born to go and stay.  

So my drummer drummer boy, 

laughing loudly, filled with joy, 

set the tempo march us double time.  

So my drummer, drummer boy, 

keep me cat-like ready, keep me iron-steady, 

keep me in the joys of heady child's play near God.  

So my drummer, drummer boy, 

Streator's pride, Streator's joy, m

ay you that drummer, drummer boy always be.  

So my drummer, drummer, boy, drum some more, 

that we may see, what will be in store, 

if only we, join hands embark on the goals of community, serenity, 

and love.  

And so my drummer, drummer boy, 

keep us laughing, frolic joy, eternal joy, 

eternal grace, eternal smile on every loving face, 

and always keep the beat in place as we go marching on.

Oh when the saints,

Go marching in,

Oh when the saints go marching in.

Ralph Kotches will be the drummer,

When the Saints Go Marching In.