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!
We’ll show you our shadow