Ode to a Round (or three) of Guinness
Thou foster child of chaos and swift stress
Tired colleague, who canst thus express
A saucy tale more interesting than our rhyme:
What beret-fringed undergrad haunts about our table
Of pint glasses and cigarettes butts and more,
in corner booth or the long bathroom line?
What alternakid is this? What cretin here?
What mad pursuit, note my struggle to escape?
What fratastic friends? What idiotic ploy?
Heard excuses are bullshit, but those unheard
over the jukebox worse; ye of the late paper, walk on;
Not to the professorial ear, is excuse endeared;
Pipe to the booth-slouching hordes your drunken tune:
Foul youth, beneath the smoky haze, thou canst not sing
Thy plea, nor ever extension be granted,
And winning not near the goal--yet do not heave:
Penalty cannot be escaped, though thou has emailed,
Forever wilt thou beg, and me be fair!