Twas the night before Dean’s Date and perched on my chair,
I threw up my hands and cried out in despair.
The libr’y was full, not one sound broke the silence,
Until I began my grand act of defiance.
“Camus and Sartre,” I said, my face stony,
“Wrote nothing but loads of inflated baloney.”
I paused and then offered these chilling last words:
“They’ve been dead for years. So give up, you nerds.”
Ignoring the glares and the scandalized looks,
I stood up in a huff, and I slammed shut my books.
I stalked to my room and I kicked off my shoes,
And climbed into bed to catch a quick snooze.
When out in the hall, there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
I looked down the hall, and checked up the stair,
I checked in the bathroom, but no one was there!
When, what to my wondering eyes, should appear,
But a sketchy MOL senior, with a twelve-pack of beer!
His eyes were so bloodshot! And his clothes – oh, the smell!
(He seemed to have forgotten to put pants on as well).
But he wasn’t embarrassed – the cont’ry, I think!
He swayed on the spot and said with a wink,
“Jim Beam, José Cuervo, Jacky D, Johnnie Red.
You should have been learning all those names instead.”
He tossed me a beer and he said, “Listen, bro:
If you want to live life, those are guys you should know.”
Then he stumbled away with a deafening cry,
“Happy Dean’s Date to all! Who’s up for T.I.?”
