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THE CRIME

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

When life's last thesis is written,

And learning is tucked in his bed;

When all of the book worms have bitten

Their last of what sages have said;

When Widener's completely forsaken,

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Except for the man who checks coats;

And the last Ph.D. has been taken;

When culture has sowed her wild oats;

Then let us remember the vernal

Vicissitudes, most of them kind;

Yes, let us make pleasure diurnal--

Regarding an orderly mind.

Let us laugh at the void which is culture.

The massive proportions of wit;

And be free from the wormy sepulcher,

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