November is the cruelest month, breeding

Yalies out of the far-flung dung, mixing

Bulldogs and good Pilgrims, stirring

False hope with the smell of ambition.

What are the amateurs that clutch, what egos grow

Out of this rubbish four man pile-up? Son of Yale,

You cannot say, or guess or speak, for you slur only

A heap of half-remembered parties and one-night stands

Oh, do not ask me “Who is she?”

I’ll never see her again.

sip sip sip

jug jug jug

Mistakes so unforced!

Tags

For The Moment, The Game