A Christmas poem
Jolly St. Nick picks his Christmas gifts well.
He left them with us--but how, we can't tell.
So now it's our duty to spread Christmas cheer
to people we don't like.
To Bok, we give his two billion dollars
to hire a couple of more varied scholars.
We give him The Crimson--the voice of his minions--
his spending to mirror our worthy opinions.
To Clark, who has made the Law School so tense,
we give a quick trial without good defense.
To Robert Putnam and K-School nobility,
we offer a mission and respectability.
To Verba, we give the magical power
to hire minorities and make bureaucrats cower.
To junior professors waiting for tenure,
Some published articles and a quick change of gender.
For Judith Hope, the Corporation's token,
we give a companion who'd be more outspoken.
For Linda S. Wilson, of Radcliffe's domain,
a feminist outlook to anchor her reign.
For Joe Nye, whose rules barred The Crimson from view,
a burly young bouncer to keep him out, too.
To Alan Dershowitz we give some humility,
consistency, too, and some business ability.
To Jamie Harmon, non-ordered choice god,
a random lottery and a room at the Quad.
To Jewett, the dean with whom Jamie fights,
we give a stong spine, a roulette wheel and dice.
To Heimert, we give a giant regression--
an Eliot filled at his own discretion.
To the Pfisters, we give a new house to rule
with geeks, but no jocks in the applicant pool.
To Guhan, a subscription to "Spin" magazine--
that's the closest he'll get to the pop music scene.
To members of ROTC, a wholly new venture,
a scholarship fund without an indenture.
To students at Harvard, of all breeds and types,
a grand student center to answer your gripes
For leftists at Harvard in activist realms,
we offer a decade with no Jesse Helms.
To Phillips Brooks House (a first-rate collection),
a bit of advice: Stay away from elections.
And to Rosa, the head of that valuable crew,
a Mother Jones column (her mom has one, too).
To the Indy, some bandages for egos we bruised.
we printed the truth, but they weren't amused.
To the Lampy, a rich club for unfunny schmoozers,
a treatment to help nitrous-oxide abusers.
To clubbies, we give their most nightmarish dream:
a world where the "girls" run the whole social scene.
The students in frats (the thought makes us quiver),
we send to that trade school a mile down the river.
To MacDonald, the hero of Minnesota's spanking,
we give a career in consulting and banking.
To Cleary, we give the record he seeks--
a fifth season win in the upcoming weeks.
In Cambridge, it's time to say...arrive'derci
to ex-councillors Sullivan, Graham and Vellucci.
For Governor Mike, some much-needed dough,
his budget's a mess; his bond rating's low.
And on to the issues now facing our nation,
some presents for Poppy's administration.
For Bush, some action on Europe and NATO.
For Quayle, the Cliff's Notes to works of Plato.
For Bennett, the Pooh-Bah of drug interdiction,
we give some quick help for tobacco addiction.
For Ronnie Reagan, what could we get?
Whatever we give him, he'll surely forget.
To the Germans, Latvians, Poles and Czechs,
we give Martin Feldstein and American Express.
To Gorby, who took on the communist bureaucracy,
we offer McDonalds, McPaper, McDemocracy.
To democrats in China, lest we forget,
we give covert aid, which the Contras won't get.
To Wuer Kaixi, we give admiration,
to Henry Kissenger, a strong condemnation.
And, last but not least, to each Crimson friend,
we ask their forgiveness with all that we send.
For Bogart, we ask that St. Pete keep in mind
he needs a new Kenny, or someone as kind.
To Liz, an outlet for all her frustration,
a new color set and two weeks' vacation.
For Brian, the price would be far too steep
to outdo our last gift--a full night of sleep.
To Pat, we offer some new Crimson lore
and a good Tetris book to boost his high-score.
To Bentley, a forum to reach the whole nation--
a good real-world job and quick syndication.
Now that we've given out gifts to our neighbors,
we ask just one favor to pay for our labors.
From our teachers and profs who have dealt with our tensions,
we ask for some sympathy, B's and extensions.
As exams draw near and the days grow colder,
our rhymes are exhausted and our message grows older.
We were heard to exclaim as we ran out of space,
"Happy Christmas to all, and don't bother taking any books home."