Congratulations Cornell, you get another dose of my not-so-funny bi-weekly installments before the end of the semester. I know you all missed me over Thanksgiving so I begged my editor to publish just one more thing. Okay, let’s be real, you were all too busy stuffing your faces with turkey to care about what I would have written last Thursday. I guess I just couldn’t bear parting with you, so here it is: a bonus column. Without further ado, I present some semester-ending verses for you.
Its that time of year again
when the leaves have all fallenand Cornell’s basketballershave started their ballin’.There are parties to go tofull of holiday cheerwith good will toward alland a lot of free beer.
But the end of the semester
is just now in sight,the approaching exams cause many a sleepless night.Up the hills we trudge toward the carrels with speed,past stressed-out studentsand professors in tweed.
So off to studymy friends here we golike Cornellians before usmany generations ago.But before you step footin the library to read,my friends hear this warning,of this message take heed:
The libraries in Decemberare a frightening place;there is not a smilenor a single happy face.Hollow-eyed studentslurk in the stackswith pallid complexionsand hunched-over backs.
As hard as you lookthere’s not a spot to be foundand you fear you’ll be forcedto sit on the ground.After hours of searchingyou find an open space,but sitting across from youis a sinister face.
Every page you turnhe shoots you a glarethat says: “One more sound and you had better beware.”You keep turning your pagesbecause you need to pass.Long ago you lost hopefor an A in your class.
Soon he is lividhis face is contortingand the looks that he gives youfeel much less than sporting.A swift kick under the desksays you’ve crossed a line.Your shins they are throbbingthere’s a tingling up your spine.
Your eyes meet hisand he grins you a grinreaching end to endabove his weirdly shaped chin.His manor is pompoushe thinks he has wonthough before you leavehe is in for some fun …
As you raise yourselffrom your stiff wooden chair,you (purposely) hit your coffeeand it flies through the air.You watch with vengeance as the cup hits its markand now his white shirtis all wet, stained and dark.
You may laugh lastthis time at least,but beware, for you have awoken a beast.A sorry wont cut it,he is really ticked off.He hates you morethan that guy with the cough.
Will Spencer is a senior in the College of Agriculture and Life Sciences. He may be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org. Tripping Up Stairs appears alternate Thursdays this semester.
Original Author: Will Spencer