Listen my friends, and you shall hear
A dreadful poem which I have here.
’Tis about the class of ’91,
And a harrowing tale when once begun.
A tale that will make you all shiver and shake;
The thought of it now is making me quake.
’Tis a tale of struggle and grief and woe,
Of the girls who wrote fast, and the girls who wrote slow,
Of girls who came early, of girls who came late,
Of those who had plenty, others, none to dictate.
Of the girls who held pencils as if they were pills,
Of others, who held them as if they had chills.
Of the dear darling girls who did everything (write) right,
Of other unfortunates weeping all night,
Oh! indeed, my dear friends, ’twas a terrible sight.
Of a dear kindly teacher who came every night,
And who stayed long after the electric light,
Of the class in a circle the teacher around,
While he watched every outline, and heard every sound.
And the five minutes recess to catch the fresh air.
Of return to the circle and “catching” it there;
Of the girls who can stand up and read as they’d write.
Of others who couldn’t if they stood up all night;
Ah! yes indeed, ’twas a pitiful plight.
Of Complaints and of Answers, of Leases and Deeds;
Of all kinds of letters for business men’s needs;
Of good sound advice as we all neared the end,
From our dear kind Instructor, who is “also our friend.”
Of that dread Monday eve which had long been expected;
Of the papers accepted, and the papers rejected.
Of this beautiful calm which has followed that night;
And I’m sure that my teachers and classmates unite
In thanking Class ’90 for this pleasant sight.
