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No Crime

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

When painfully from out the warmth of bed

You crawl at Monday dawn, and all is glum

From prospects of the hour exams to come

And papers not yet writ, you shake your head

Still dull with sleep; "Alas," you moan, and shed

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The musty sheet. But yet there lives a some-

What feeble hope of pleasures that might numb

This dreariness: a journal not yet read.

'Tis then that Joy her contract doth renege

And lets escape an evil little laugh,

By fancy, poisoning this place, this time;

And you are doomed to break the breakfast egg

Unheartened by a single paragraph.

Hey gang honest to god no kid no CRIME.

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