Once more unto the Big House, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our Wolverine dead.
In the offseason there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of the band blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the wolverine;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with MINOR RAGE;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest Wolverine.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of tradition!
Fathers that, like so many Schembechlers,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And removed their pads for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to win. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in Michigan, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your tuition; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Rodriguez, Michigan, and Saint Schembechler!'

(Sorry I didn't keep the iambic pentameter, I'm a math major, not english.)