District No. 7240

The Toast of the Jolly Corks

Now the Eleventh Hour, when Elkdom's tower is dark with shroud of night. When Father Time, on his silvery chime tolls off the moment's flight. In the cloistered halls, each Elk recalls his brothers where're they may be, and traces their faces to well known places in the annals of memory.
And whether they stand on a foreign land or lie in their earthen beds, or whether they be on the boundless sea, with breakers of death ahead. Whatever their plight in the eerie night, whatever their fate may be. Wherever they are, if near or far, they are thinking of you and of me.
So drink from the fount of fellowship, to the brothers who have clasped your hand, who carved your worth on the rocks of earth and wrote your faults on the sand.


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