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Grad Time Rhyme

May 2010 | by Dustin Renwick '10


A senior editorial featured in the April 29 edition of The Buzz.

I hate graduation, I hate it the most.
I don't want to give a speech or a toast.
What else you ask? I hate clichés too,
like "roses are red and violets are blue."

But perhaps what I hate most of all
are clichés in senior editorials - the spring, not the fall.

"Four years have flown by."
"I'll miss x, y and z."
You wouldn't if you'd only look carefully.

"These were the best times of my life."
"I've learned this, that and the other."
Please spare me a story that would only smother
the fire I have for this event represented
by caps, gowns and tassels; time wasted, lamented.

Instead I will leave my best list of remembrances
in a form not so much prose, but Dr. Seuss sentences.
Pay attention, dear readers, for these are the hooks
that teach of life lessons you won't find in textbooks.

And so, to begin:

Don't let your major define your persona.
I studied marine bio in Belize, with Corona.
It was a blast, the tops, sunny, just fantastic,
with Halfhill and kids I'd met by being intrascholastic.

Marathoner McCaffrey, Badminton Bruce,
Sandy the Skateboarder with political truths.
DeFrancisco is a name that fits in this beat,
he makes theology interesting, a rather large feat.

Botany with John Horn was always a riot,
La Corte with his history, you just have to try it.
Jacobson and philosophy, he has a banjo,
a noun that rhymes with French: chateau.

And Paul's cooler than you,
cooler than you if you had a banjo plus two!
He could strum with Van Speybroeck, a mouthful of vowels,
who plays a harp far better than my pet great-horned owl.

Trapp could join in, accompanying piano,
we'd have ourselves a fine Ambrose show.
Judy on marketing and Coach Ray to emcee,
Becky singing from the mailroom, Go Fighting Bees!

Enough about music, we haven't the time,
I've yet to cram four years into this rhyme.
I'll thank all the teachers that haven't been named.
I apologize this poem won't bring you acclaim.

Perhaps next year... oh wait, there won't be,
I'm headed to grad school unfortunately.
Different time, different place, I'll be the first to admit
I'm not looking forward to the post-Ambrose trip.

So I recall a past mud-sliding episode,
on the field called Timmerman, the line, we toed
in the pouring rain - rain, rain, rain,
until mud covered us, from our feet to our brain.

And debates over dinner always ensue.
What cereal? Best music? I haven't a clue,
but the spirit of pondering such urgent life questions
was always great fun, any other suggestions?

Egg chucking, lifeguards, ping-pong destruction,
caution snakes, road closed, our room under construction.
Boys of 412, the year's been entertaining
with too many laughs to do more explaining.

A shirt with no buttons is a long-sleeved tee,
not a long-sleeve or button down, Mitch, I win, see?
And Justy, dear Milton has always been handy
for road trips to Green Day or a good summer shandy.

To my comm. department professors, I offer this thanks:
humor, wisdom and talent fill up your ranks.
And where would I be? Oh where would I bee (with two e's)
without my track and field family?

Practices were memorable, not as much as bus rides,
when I think of our team, I feel absolute pride.
Some days it seemed like I lived in the gym,
always worth it when we run to a beat-Grand-View win.

Sprinting in Houston, relays at Drake,
collegiate track is a trip, make no mistake.
Through travels crisscrossing our nation,
coaches and teammates, you've been my foundation.

Cinco de Track, that's all I will mention.
A mass of memories draws awful attention.
Time has run out on my unwinding clock.
I bid you farewell, adieu, and cheers: Doc

 

Courtesy of The Buzz

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