We don't like Shelley, we don't like Keats,
We don't like poets who're tactlessly dead;
If you write like us there will be no fuss—
That's the best of verse, when the last word's said.... (Bursting irrepressibly into youthful enthusiasm, and dashing their horn spectacles to the ground)
Yale! Yale! Yale!
Our Poetry!
Fine Poetry!
Nobody Else's Poetry!
Raw! Raw! Raw! Raw!
(Enter, modestly, the Person Responsible for the Poetic Renaissance in America. There are four of him—or her, as the case may be—Miss Monroe, Miss Rittenhouse, Mrs. Stork, Mr. Braithwaite. The Person stands in a row and recites in unison:)