The legendary song From Tech Show, 1954

She never held me on her knee
But she was all the world to me
That lady with the pointed head
My Mother was a Tech coed.

Couldn't cook, she couldn't sew,
But she could fix a radio
She used T-squares to make a bed
My Mother was a Tech coed.

She gave her fingernails a hue
By dipping them in Thymol Blue
Her lips were dyed with Cresol Red.
My Mother was a Tech coed.

She wasn't lovely or even cute,
But she stayed in the Institute.
She wasn't lovely or for real,
She had a dy-dx appeal.

When she went to a dress affair,
She pressed her jeans and combed her hair.
She thought a big fur coat would shed.
My Mother was a Tech coed.

Her cocktails were a potent brew
She learned the trick in 5.02.
She always bought her cakes and bread.
My Mother was a Tech coed.

She hung her slide rule by the door,
Hung curtain rods with 2.04
At Christmas time we had a tree
She fixed the lights with 8.03.

Though Daddy was a Harvard guy,
He loved Ma and her formulae.
In Kresge Chapel they were wed
My Mother was a Tech coed.

As she approached maternity,
She also got her Ph.D.
And started working on pre-med

Then followed many happy years
With fireside tales by Francis Sears
With calculus she was well bred
My Mother was a Tech coed.

And now that she is up in heaven
She fixed the streets with D11.
She was queen of the grey and red.
My Mother was a Tech coed.
 
"She couldn't cook, she couldn't sew
but she could fix the radio"
the lady with a pointed head,
my mother was a tech coed."1

I wish I was a Wellesley wench
Oh the passions I would quench
at parties I would drink highballs
(never touch a beer!)
I'd bat my big blue eyes and sigh
"Are you an ENGINEER?"

(Chorus)
But I'm just a tech coed,
Mama dropped me on my head.
I wear a slide rule on my belt,
Man, oh man, do I look svelte!

       
The song goes:

Oh, I wish I was a Wellesley girl
I'd give the Techman such a whirl
I'd charm them with my smile
And then I'd hook them properly
I'd march them down the aisle.
   
Chorus:

Oh, I wish I was a B.U. girl
In C.L.A. I'd really toil.
In Hayden you could find me
Almost every night.
And though I could not read a word,
My blouse would be too tight.

   Chorus

A Techretary I would be
To catch a man from MIT.
I'd sit in Building Twenty,
Perhaps in Building Ten,
Doing little favors
For all those lovely MEN.

   Chorus

Oh, I with I wath a girl from Thmith
A thouthand Techmen I would kith.
They'd all come to my miktherth
Id date them on the run.
But when the boys from Yale come round,
I'd flush them one by one.

   Chorus

Oh, I wish I was a Simmons wench,
And oh the passions I would quench.
At parties I'd drink highballs
I'd never touch a beer.
I'd bat my big blue eyes and squeal,
Are you an EnginEER?
   Chorus

A kiss on the hand may be quite continental,
But slide rules are a girl's best friend.
A kiss may be grand but it won't pass the quizzes.
Or the labs to boot
Or get you through the Institute

Men grow cold as we grow old, 
and we all lose our charms in the end 
In the end (scream) Be it round-shaped or square-shaped, 
These sticks don't lose their shape 
We mean to tell you Slide rules are a girl's best friend!

We shall all reside at MIT
In a superlative dormit'ry
What a thrilling, absolutely willing
Opning of the ladies semin'ry.

With gentlemen callers we'll sip tea
Divert ourselves excessively
What a ripping, positively pipping
Training of the MIT young miss.

We shall all peruse Mademoiselle
All adorned with modes in vogue as well
What a smashing, infinitely dashing
Styling of the scientific maid.

We shall all learn our etiquette
Each of us will be a social pet
Oh, what charming, ever so disarming
Specimens of proper maidenhood

Dahling damsels, moral ma'mselles
Lovely lasses, from the cream of cultured classes

Our eccentric ways we will reform
To society we must conform
And our rotten, soon to be forgotten  
Freedom will be finished evermore.

Dear Kenneth R. Wadleigh, we're down on our knees. 
We have all been told about the birds and the bees. 
Dear Kenneth R. Wadleigh, what are we to do? 
Gee, Kenneth R. Wadleigh . . . . . . . . 
> Tune: Officer Krupke

Don't forget Franny Dyro.
(I came on the MTA...) 
In the EE laboratory..etc., etc. 

Has some great choruses like: 
It's Ernie Guillemin's turn to throw the switch 
You ought to see his great big Wheatstone britch [sic] 
Professor Moon is mad and his gypsy mistress is sad 
'Cause it's Ernie Guillemin's turn to throw the switch. 

(written with Dick Levine)

Tell me why the stars do shine
tell me why the ivy twines
tell me why the sky's so blue
and I will tell you why I love you

diffraction makes the stars to shine
tropisms make the ivy twine
dispersion makes the sky so blue
hormones are the reason why I love you

Nuclear fission makes stars to shine.
Geotropisms make ivy twine.
Rayleigh scattering makes the sky so blue.
Glandular hormones are why I love you.