New Jersey College of Pharmacy - Scarlet Ray Yearbook (Newark, NJ)

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'T ffhe Scarlet 'Rag e The famous Sfez'e,' who fook a chance, Mighf well fake Helen fo iz daizee. Yef here the chance is more than fair, For fake my fip, Miss Bozie's ihere. A gen! of very many paris, A gen! of maizy broken hearfs, He wrofe this hook Qfozii hizi lo fnmej. O11 iee fhe serihes engnzre his imnze. fEDITOR'S NOTE-This refers fo Roz1'11m11.j Oh, here is Fezier Qrhynzes with iemierj, Bu! he's noi. In seelusiozz, or delusion, Goa' knows wof. My razor doesn't cut at all. Come, come, replied the wife. Your beard is no tougher than the linoleum I cut with it yesterday. I should think that a night club would be the last place you'd go to, scolded the father. Yes, replied the flapper, uit usually isf, Edith: Tell me, just what sort of a man your fiance is, Marie. Marie: 'KOh, he's ever thin that's nice.', Y S Edith: Fm so glad. You know I've always said that people should marry their opposites. She 610f'Sl7,f like A shady joke. She doesift hike, She r10es1z't smoke, She a'oesn't swear, She izeuer flirts. She d0ES7Z,If' wear, Those shortenerl skirts. She cloeszft dance, Am! goofs in Lluzizis, D071,If mean a thing, She d'0BS7Z,If use, Those heazity sal-ues, But 'LU071,f refuse, To show her valves. You izsk her mzme? Well, thafs iz wow- She's not ci rlizme, She,s just a cow. I Page 1291

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rfhe SCa,1'l6b'Ra'U i DIGITALIZING THE SENIOR CLASS Hie thee, Muse, and bring with thee The senior class for us to see. The prst is Altman, indeed a big shot, tPerhaps thus is no, perhaps it is not.j In anirno solo, this fur eoatea' lad, Has plenty of IT, or is it his clad? Gooel Senator Heflin, B. Asbel, et al, Are lacking in something, Lora' knows it's not gall At monkey wrench throwing, political bull, The fates lightly ehueklezt, his warehouse is full. 'Tis known as an adage, the wise sages say, That the best for the SJl5fC'77Z7S an apple a zlayf' If Max is a flruggist, the doctors will bawl, Preventative measures net nothing at all. Michael Araneo, spotlessly neat, Is the latest in fashion from eaput to feet, In the rear of the flrug store mixing his wares, Perhaps he may ruffle some well polished hairs. Baleton ana' books and the teehnieal lab, Are thought of at onee in the same sort of blah. Caleieunz, eitropate, popsigot stew, Ana' he's probably thinking the same thing of you. Anita Loos, a female of note, Folks really enjoyeet all the babble she wrote, XVhile the honey-soaked verse from Mary Beltrani, CPutting it 'llltldb Walks away with your nanny. G. Bancroft a gent of considerable fanze, You know he's a gent by the sound of his name. Hets erurtite, studious, not bait to see, There rnust be some screw loose, Goal knows what it be When Bergman plays basketball, Abie is there, When he wise cracks you feel there is too vnueh hot air So stick to ball anal the basket, thou ghul, For the jester is often construed with the fool, fake Block is one we 1nnst aalrnire, His word is law, or 1,771 a liar. There's vnany who eonlrl take a tip, By followin' jake and not their lip I Page 1281

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ffhe S'C6,1'lCb'Rd1J s A A MIDNIGHT SONG I heard a song at midnight- Heard its chilling echoes ring, In a shrieking chant of horror, Such as nendish devils sing. All was blackness in my chamber, Save a single softened glow, And I closely sat beside it, Having fear to let it go. So I listened there, near stricken, To the Plutian strains of hell, That kept sounding on my ear-drur W01'se that hunzan words can tell. ns, Oh, what ghastly song at midnight- Wozzld I ever cease to hear, All the nerve destroying hedlam, That was thrown upon my ear. I could stand the shrielzs no longer, So I turned them of with care, For you can't hear whiskey tenors, When there's static in the air! R. W. R. '28. TO A MUSE Oh, weather heaten muse, I call thee hence! How oft' the drowsing hards have used thee, Until thou hanglst in threads upon the fence, Of timeg no more shall they abuse thee. I call thee hence, oh muse, to rest in peace, Thou martyr to the versed cause of men, Who took advantage of your transient ease, To hlot the splurges of each guidless pen. How oft' from Camhriifs shore, some ruthless h Has called on thee to grace his idle verse, Which brings to thee a shackle, cold and hard, To hind thy name to such a wanton curse. Hold thou remembrance of the fairer day, When muses served to urge the ancient rhyme? For if thou could, the shine of rare decay, Might e'en eclipse the verse of modern time. Poor Muse, hut thou art gone, thy gilded road, Let not the pangs of poesy bore thee- The Strophe, Antistrophe and Epode- A-uant! And let the gods alone adore thee. R. W. R. '28, III' 59331301