In fact, it's no exaggeration,
I get mine at a filling station,
But how can man his sorrows drown
In this old run-down sleepy town
Where they extinguish lights at ten,
And lamp-posts don't support he-men
I'm going back where life is bright,
Where joy flows free and night ain't night,--
I'll pick my bones from off this pavin'
And hie me back to old New Haven."
Such Popularity Must be Deserved
Along about now, we have heard, there come the mid-year examinations. Every columnist and editorial writer is expected to mention these. Well, we have. . . . So there.
It has also been said that one who is absolutely ignorant of a subject is best fitted to write about that subject. According to this, we are supremely qualified to write about mid-years. But we have to show off.
It must have been the beef. We've never been this way before. It's all a pack of lies. But tonight the waiter brought us some red, red beef. It looked quite angry or embarrassed, two conditions which induce rudd' ness. But the white-coated Ganymede quieted our fears. "It's rare, not very well done," he vowed.
The time is up. Gentlemen, like the beef, this is a rare column.