Why I can't remember your name

The girls have dragged out the electric keyboard. Eldest bought it back when she sang with a sophisticated youth choir, and was required to take piano as part of the curriculum. She made quick progress, and apparently taught her sisters to play a bit. (I discovered this last fall at my sister's house when I heard a respectable version of Fur Elise wafting up from the piano, and found out Dancer was playing. I didn't even know she knew middle C!)

Yesterday Snuggler said, "Mom, do you want to know the words to the latest boring song I've learned on the piano?"

"No," I replied, "But I can sing you the words to the first stupid song I learned on the piano."

The kids looked at me wide-eyed as I sang:

Here we go
Up a row
To a birthday party.

 (C-D-E, C-D-E, D-C-D-E-C-C)

Everyone agreed that it was, indeed, the most insipid song ever. There were periodic bursts of hilarity throughout the day as we modified the words to fit everything we did.

But this begs the question: why is this particular memory in my brain all these decades later?!