2014 Senior Roast - Part 2

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Part 2

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Mickey Sumner . . .
who set up as a regular guy . . . but became an Integral gang-banger!

I real cool. I
Be school. I

Fake Greek. I
No Geek. I

Translate. I
Draw      shape.
Stay
Up late. I

Drink wine. I
Feel fine. I

Stiff Ted. I
Spend bread. I

Talk deep. I
No sleep. I

Breed flies. I
Wise-guy. I

Watch bird. I
BE HEARD.

(With apologies to Gwendolyn Brooks, Bard; and with
reference to "We Real Cool")

 


Austin Bruer . . .
who was cursed with Intellectual Modesty . . .

And Austin Bruer's chief defect?
He had no agent intellect,
The passive one was all he got,
When souls were handed out by lot
(As Plato tells us in Book X,
Republic, at the bitter end).
Ah! bitter, too, was Austin's fate,
But edifying to relate.

Be it a Common Notion, or
A demonstration from Book 4,
Of Euclid's Elements, or yet
The formal theory of a set;
Or be it Descartes' cogito,
The farthest Austin's mind would go,
Was to the limit reached in dreams:
His affirmations went, "It seems."

Thus Austin, 'though a pleasant lad,
Was apt to drive his tutors mad;
And drove his classmates to despair,
At each attempt to locate where
Exactly his opinions lay
For, Austin really couldn't say:
The sum of his sagacity
Was ever one—"It seems to me."

So Austin's whole career was spent,
Until, at last, the Rumor went
Abroad that Austin's Essay might
At last bring Austin to indict
A categorical "Just so,"
As something everyone should know;
BECAUSE (and here all hope went weary)
"He's writing it on number theory."

The day of Austin's seminar
Brought auditors from near and far,
And members of a betting pool
(The largest ever seen at school).
A score of hearts stopped beating when
Zepeda asked, "Conclusion, then?"
And Austin's voice rang clear and clean:
THUS DEDEKIND'S AFFIRMED it seems.

(With apologies to Hilaire Belloc, Bard; and with reference to
Cautionary Verses, "Henry King: Who chewed bits of String,
and was early cut off in Dreadful Agonies")

 


Gabriela Michel . . .
who strove for comprehension . . . but drove at least one Sophomore to despair!


A unnamed sophomore reviews Gabby Michel's Essay:

O Gabby! Sage Gabby! Your chariot-race, is done.
Your horses crossed the finish line at page five-sixty-one.
Your prose is clear, it's all right here,
But what's the right conclusion?
It's just that ev'ry word I read increases my confusion.

But O Pain! Pain! Pain!
O The pounding in my head!
She's pursuing THE BIG QUESTION,
But I can't grasp what she's said!

O Gabby! Glib Gabby! I don't know what to do.
My chariot is in the shop—and all because of you.
Am I Atman or the Logos or the reigns in Logos' hand?
Or am I all three together . . . or just a horse's ass?

There's no Gain! Gain! Gain!
From this pounding in my head!
Could it be the Watchman's warning?
Did my ego bite my id?

Reflection yields no answers; its utterances are dim
(And Sigmund is no friend in this—look what it did to him!);
Aristotle's failed me, and neurosis seems my fate,
But if human souls crave questions, mine's been fed, at any rate!

(With apologies to Walt Whitman, Bard; and with reference to
"Oh Captain! My Captain!")

 


Lucas Nemeth . . .
who showed early promise . . . but succumbed to Romanticism! 


At first, when Lucas Nemeth spoke a word,
We tutors at the table smiled on him:
He was a student richly self-assured,
Well-mannered, with a boyish, winning grin.

And he seemed always palpably prepared,
And never unappealing were his thoughts;
He was a force in Integral affairs,
And freshmen took to quoting his bon mots.

Yes, he seemed likely—likelier than most,
Seemed admirably suited to the case:
In fine, not a tutor but supposed,
That one day he might make, with us, his place.

So on we worked, and strove to win his mind,
Set lamps about his feat and blessed his head,
And Lucas Nemeth true to student-kind,
Set up a course romantical, instead!

He made himself the Werther of his year,
Accumulating Sorrows on the way,
Too soon, as yet, to dedicate a tear . . .
Perhaps he'll turn up with an MBA!

(With apologies to Edward Arlington Robinson, Bard;
and with reference to "Richard Cory")

 


Lucas Shimizu . . .
who took "always distinguish" to excess . . . and was hoist on his own petard!


Shimizu, from his early youth,
Found nice distinctions über-couth.
For instance, if his mother said,
"Come, Lucas! Time to go to bed!"
He thought this counter nowise cheap:
"Distinguo! Is it time to sleep?"
(Such sallies did not rile his mom—
They like this sort of thing in Guam!)
And if his father should intone,
"Hey! Lucas! Leave that cat alone!"
He'd answer back, sub-acidly,
"Have I the cat, or has she me?"

And so his school years passed apace,
Shimizu adding grace on grace,
And found to be precocious by
Dint of his gift for parsed replies.
Then on towards his 18th year,
His parents queried, "Lucas, dear,
Have any thoughts occurred of late
Re: whence you'd like to graduate?'"
Shimizu, quite decisively,
Responded, "Make it SMC—
A chop-text nest of argument—
It's Fate! It's Me! It's Heaven-sent!"

How differ'ntly things may turn out
Is illustrated by the rout
Shimizu suffered at the hand
Of Riley, tutor to that band,
Whose task, at best fantabulous,
Was reading Plato's Cratylus.
Whereto had Riley drawn a guide,
(Distinctions posed from every side)
With overlayed transparencies
And arrows grouped in two's and three's.

Shimizu, in his usual way,
Showed where further distinctions lay
And every time he drew one more
The tutor countered with a score,
Then beamed, at last, "Superbly done:
GO WRITE A PAPER ON EACH ONE."
Shimizu blenched, and slunk away
(but lived to—er—distinguish himself another day).

(With apologies to Hilaire Belloc, Bard; and with reference to
Cautionary Verses, "Lord Lundy: Who was too Freely Moved to
Tears, and thereby ruined his Political Career")

 


Onna-Lisa Kyom . . .
who looked Eros in the face . . . and found a can of worms! 


To be sung, after the fashion of Nat King Cole's "Mona Lisa" . . .

Onna-Lisa, Onna-Lisa, men have blamed you
For the way you deconstructed Kierkegaard!
Is it 'cause they're all seducers, they have blamed you,
And they fear to face Diana on her guard?

"For real" or just "for-other," Onna Lisa?
Or a work of sheer erotic irony?
There's a panting dialectic on your doorstep:
Will it lie there and just die there?

Is your essay for real, Onna Lisa?
Or should we file it under "Paglia, Camille"?

"For real" or just "for-other," Onna Lisa?
Or a work of sheer erotic irony?
There's a panting dialectic on your doorstep:
Will it lie there and just die there?

Is your essay for real, Onna Lisa?
Or should we file it under "Paglia, Camille"?

Onna-Lisa, Onna-Lisa!?

(With apologies to Ray Evans and Jay Livingston; and with reference to "Mona Lisa")

 


Somel Jammu . . .
who spoke only through her pen . . . and nibbed herself in the bud!


Somel selects her own Society—
Then—shuts the Door—
Except to Antonini—
Present no more –

Unmoved---she notes the arguments—pressing
At her low Gate—
Unmoved—tutors be kneeling
Upon her Mat.

I've known her—from an ample nation—
Choose One Mite—
Then—close the Valves of her attention—

And Write.

(With apologies to Emily Dickinson, Bard; and with
reference to "The Soul selects her own Society . . .")