Oh, Waring–
Where is the Glee in thy Club?
Whither the simple delight of thy old Victors,
Spun and radiated at seventy-eight revolutions?
Yes, we were Collegiate–
Well, you know College Boys;
Degree in hand,
It is time to start punching that cash register
Like a Swiss Bell Ringer.
Whence the glory of Glorianna,
Glowing with the heat of a thousand suns?
Keep away from that implosion
When well-shav’d youth
Chant hypnotically of Amber Waves of Grain.
I would macerate that grain for ferment
That it may be decanted into
That Stein Upon the Table–
A beer to weep into
To mourn lost ‘Twenties joy–
Alas and shellac.[ad_dropper zone_id=”1100″][ad_dropper zone_id=”914″][ad_dropper zone_id=”1088″][ad_dropper zone_id=”1126″]
