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Page 32 text:
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PICK - UPS The ones who think our jokes are poor Would straightway change their views. Could they compare the ones we print With those that we refuse. Bill Meyers with his smiling face Thinks lie can stay in the race. Rut he is no sticker for the boys, Oh, you feminine, such lovely joys. Kusselman : — I am going out to study Greek tonight, Xo use, “Fussy, we heard T. Lee make a date with Anna. Say, Andrews, ai-e you in the habit of loaning your trunk? Alma Smith said you were. “Thoop please? (Bill Crawford). Jerry Vrzal :—“Two things 1 won ' t do: Go to class and speak to anyone. For a married man. Chalmer Biggie looks contented. Elizabeth McCuffey: — I certainly do like Russwick. Wonder if that is one of Burbank ' s new vegetables. Lena B. Davis:— L ittle hat, isn ' t it. Prof.?” 1 1 : :— Are you going to leave me? R. Jox f.s :—“ Y—e— s. I fan: — What shall I do? R. Jones:- Marty is coming back. Prof.: — Mr. Reed, you may recite the next topic. Reed (Invariably):— I have just studied that far. Professor.” Nellie Wilson at one time loved a student who is now a Pharmic. Hey, Webb! Going to graduate again? Clara Mahan: —“1 have been studying too much since last fall. Wish Chux would return. Prof. Kreglow: —“Forney, do you believe that man descended from mon¬ key ? Forney— X o, sir. Prof.:—“D id you ever look in a mirror?”
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Page 31 text:
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WRITING A LYRIC A N EPISODE IN THE PCETICS CLASS OF THE O. N. U. My teacher requires me to n-rite him a lyric About ' anything under the sun ; But the things that I write, let me try with my might — Are not worth a-when they’re done. The meter is halting; the rhythm is wobbly. And the words that I’m wanting to use Will not fit tlie rhyme ; Oh. I have such a time. It certainly doe.; beat the Jews! Now, poets like Shakespeare, Mertz and McMillen Are truly the pride of the earth ; They ' ve a corner on brains and in spite of my pains. My poetry dies at its birth. True poets are born —they are not manufactured In any poetical school. Getting blood from a turnip —making whistles from pig tails, Can ' t be done by any known rule. Then how can iny teacher expect to get lyrics From my brain when there ' s not any there? He ' ll expect mine tomorrow ! Life ' s nothing but sorrow. I shall snakebite myself in despair! But stop! let me look these lines over a minute — Death’s face is decidedly stern — Why. they ' re filled with emotion and —Great land of Goshen ! There ' s meter and rhyme there to burn ! All praise to my teacher! O, divine class. Poetics! The Victory, tlie VICTORY is won ! ' Tis plain I’m a poet —these verses will show it : Shout, ye Heavens, my lyric is clone! —Irving Garwood.
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