Tis swillig, and the soused did glut themselves in the keel
All teeming were the basements, a freshman’s ideal
Now’s hump day’s eve, the bewitching hours of fraternities
Which Peter’s keys and Anubis’s scales sink for eternity
Unsheathe thine paddle you nascent puck
And pray that Hecate hast bestowed thee luck
A mere cirque of wood this blade doth look
Lacking handle, it befits hand’s nook
Engorge thine cups with the golden mead
Or water for livers sans liquor’s need.
The frothy foams of Keystone Light,
Wherefrom Venus derivèd upright.
Align the cups like shrubs or trees,
A line of stoups can surely be,
For those of thee of gorbellied frame
A sequoia’s form should be thine game.
Locate a brother to consort thee in war
And harken two rivals for a table of four.
Each twain stands abreast of their cup formation,
Weak side is starboard, strong side’s a port vocation.
To commence a rally, just serve the ball
High o’er the ersatz median, so that it falls
Onto thine opposite’s side, that woodcock lout,
It must hit the table, it mustn’t go out!
Sirrah! Avoid their cups like Charybdis’s seas
Or thrice miss the table and pay a soft fee
Of englutting half of one of your cups,
Thine own life blood you are drying up.
Once the serves lands, a tennisesque rally may proceed
Partners alternate strokes until the orbèd seed
Plummets into a chalice like a seaman in the drink
Achieving a bit of old, what most would call a sink.
And with this score your opponents are delightfully enmewed
Forced to quaff that cup complete, their soma liquid imbued.
Ensure that the ball is hit nice and high
This isn’t ping pong; lofty parabolas need apply.
But what if the ball merely hits a cup on the rim or side?
O mine artless fledgling, all thine remedies I’ll provide!
If your foes bodge the save of the ricocheting ball,
They must swill half the cuppèd grog, but certainly not all.
And once that cup’s been struck again,
Imbibe part two and trash the cup, as five and five make ten!
So the match does tarry on, ales drained with alacrity
Making thee deboshed, a hopped-up clod denuding one’s vanity.
Thine slubbered words and mimsy limbs a circus sight
For all the basement breads spectating in rapt delight.
If your glutted gut surfeits, pregnant with rotgut woe
Booteth and rallyeth, spurting ye forth, yolo!
With brews removed, the once brimmed fronts do thin
And Fates’ threads draw out the hits to happen.
But forging forth, each team’s phalanx assaulted
Awaiting wingèd Nike, in victory exalted.
Tis half cup-half cup now, each duo’s reached their last string
The frays of Lachesis’s measure, awaiting Atropos’s cutting.
That elusive final chalice, the Holy Grail of sorts,
When struck by thee dost their hubris thwart
Oh frabjous play, callooh callay, I chortle in my joy!
Thee, my palmy team, hast slain their manxsome Troy!
Now shake their hands, and salute their stab
But recover thine court to defend your tab
Of one and naught against the team straight to surface,
Who sobered aim to thieve thine hard fought purchase.
For you are holding table, my candle-wasters,
Ensuring no one will be your grail’s taster,
So fill six new cups, darraign them once more
Into a tree, a shrub, or line, preparing for hops-fueled gore.
Thusly the cycle goes, basements meat-grinded of initiates
Creating a new breed to sustain the age-old recreate.
But know that each house, like SigEp, Phi Delt and AD,
Has their own domestic rules, which you will see,
Upon arriving to Dartmouth’s greenery,
And playing ye olde pong with yours truly.
