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Jonathan Morgan___________________ A Midnight Ride on Paul’s Derriere Listen, my children, and you shall hear Suffice it to say they slunk back to their lair Of that fine tradition all Johnnies revere And Peterson echoed with their cries of despair: A Poetry Contest, in your nomenclature “How now shall we manage, O Divine Mercy, Erotic in name, and though small in stature to express our deep love for all things unseemly? Healthy and bulging with tumescent pride For sodomy, incest, and good Lady Chatterley, And like many bulges, too prominent to hide. For onanists, frotteurists, and bestiality?!? A rude, hairy Tourney of frustrated gripes Freud says that what isn’t expressed will fester! Which yet managed beauty, as Pan from his pipes. What we hold in now will be worse next semester! A contest that Johnnies created, in trust. And though we are craven and burning with lust, As a repository for their various lusts. Most average Johnnies are homier than us!” On one fine spring morning, in 2004, The editors anguished long into the night. The Dean paid a call on the Moon editors. But had they a plan, by first morning light. He asked them, with feigned nonchalance, to accompany Although it would gall them, they must take a chance, Him back to his office, and they complied readily. A crash-course in administrative song-and-dance: Then, barring his door tightly behind their backs They’d barter, cajole, beseech, threaten and stall. And tuning upon them, as if to attack, said And try to appease the Gods of Weigle Hall.
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