Joe Kind: A Guy
’Twas the night before 16S, with students on the loose.Not a creature was resting, not even a moose.
The textbooks were placed in the library with care,that is, the ones that still remained there.
The winter grades were nestled all snug on my Banner,while visions of lighter course loads dominated my banter.
And Phil with his moustache, and Gail by his side,had just readied our brains for a long spring ride.
When out on the Green there arose such a clatter,I sprang from the River to see what was the matter.
Away to the Green I ran like a flash,tore across Tuck Mall, and saw there was a bash.
The bash on the breast of the newly departed snowgave the luster of the Green to the bodies below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should stir,but a grey and green SUV and an SNS officer.
With a little old walkthrough, a smile and a frown,I knew in a moment it must be shut down.
More rapid than eagles, the instructions they came,And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
“Now 16s! Now 19s!And all in between!On, the dorms! On, Late Night!On, remaining Greek scene!To the top of the Hop!To the top of the stacks!Now dash away! Dash away!Turn your backs!”
As wet snowflakes that before the wild spring term fall,When they meet with an obstacle, staying put, the students stall.
So back to the spring-tipped Dick’s House he droveThe back seat empty, mac’n’cheese bites sitting in the stove.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard back on the Green,the prancing and pawing of spring dreams.
As I drew out my head and was turning around,all throughout the Green Dartmouth students were abound!
They were dressed all in flair, from their heads to their feets,And their shoes were all soiled from snowy mush on the streets.
Their bundles of joy they had flung on their backs,Even Reds can’t keep up the slack.
The stars — how they twinkled! The fresh grass — how merry!The tower looking fresh, perhaps even legendary!
The music, banging and bumping,the dancing, unrelenting and thumping.
The stump of a lone pine revered for all its mightAnd the smokestack ever churning through the night.
The students, broad-faced with beer-belliesthat shook when they laughed, like bowls full of jellies.
Run it back to the fall, fresher than produce,the freshmen always in the way like mongoose,peering out of their dorm rooms, waiting for Greek scenes,walk into a frat full of new 18s.
Dare we consider the winter term,contaminated by global warming and new sets of germs.
And laying their fingers on top of their D-Plans,the ’17s said, “Sayonara, Phil Hanlon!”
They sprang to their bikes, to their teams gave a whistle,and away they all flew like a nuclear missile.
I heard them explain, just barely in sight,“Happy spring term to all and to all a good night!”