O SCAC, My SCAC

O Conference, my Conference- our trip is nearly done!
These spikes have weather'd every track, the prize sought nearly won.
The line is near, the gun I hear, the people all cheering.
We all converge with jerseys worn, our stares bold and daring:
But O track! track! track!
O the moments in my head,
Where on the line my heart will lie,
My feet no longer tread.

O Conference, my Conference- rise up and bid farewell!
Rise up- for one team has nearly left- for a little we can dwell.
For your hist'ry and golden stripes- for you the line is calling.
For you they call, the gun will start, the final laps awaiting.
Here Conference, dear SCAC!
This team you pushed ahead;
It is some dream that on the track,
The names won't be read.

My Conference knows the answer, the chance happens once more.
The SCAC still has four tigers, and will until one final meet score.
Teams gather towards epic Memphis, a final showdown there.
From trip to track the feet will meet, winning by maybe a hair.
Shoot, O gun, and cheer, O teams!
Thus we hurdle the dead,
Again, fighting for the trophy;
Whose hunger will be fed?