To our beloved English profs

Had we but school enough and time,

Digressions, Loney, were no crime.

We would wait here, and think which way

To sit, and pass our class away.

Thou by the sweet Niag’ra’s side

Shouldst students find; I by the Tide

Of laundry would complain. We would

Write notes in class until a flood,

Or some disaster force us to

Abandon pen and paper true.

Our pop cultural puns should grow

Vaster than Faber’s, and more slow;

An hundred years should go to graze

On wisdom from Shakespearean plays;

Two hundred to prepare for tests

But certainly we’d save the best

For Bowen’s work, Van Rys’ art,

Because these two are very smart.

Professors you deserve this state,

Nor would we learn at lower rate.

But at our backs we always hear

The summer’s chariot hurrying near;

And yonder all before us shine

Sun’s rays off meadows, oh, so fine.

Thy poems shall no more be read,

Nor, shall your plays ring in our head

With echoing song; then dust shall lie

On textbooks ‘til they’re hid from eye,

And then we will lose all our quotes

And into ashes all our notes:

The classroom’s a fine place to learn,

But come May, none do there return.

Now therefore, while the eager eyes

Still look to you without despise,

And while we all still wish to gain

More information for our brain,

Now teach us well while ye may,

And now, before we want to play,

Rather at once give us knowledge

At this Redeemer University College.

Let us roll our minds and all

Our learning up into one ball

And tear our int’llect with rough strife

Through the alloy gates of life:

Thus, though we cannot make our sun

Stand still, yet we will make him run.

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