There was a temple on a hill; it looked down o'er the masses --

A chaste, inviolate, holy place -- devoid of carnal passes.

It once stood proud, its shelves held high, a bookish inner sanctum.

It's doors thrown open to the 'Cliffe, a house of co-ed prankdom.

"We let them in," the leaders crowed. "A process liberalizing.

Will stimulate men to create -- increase hypothesizing."

"Death to the wonk," their fervent cry. "This is our new crusade."

"Equality down to sweat socks," frothed Radcliffe's mad brigade.

"Alas and woe!" the student cried, his books clutched to his breast.

"With all this tall before my face, who'll pass my hour test?"

A winsome wench of horn-rimmed glass then caught his roving eye.

"Twas coffee then, a date at ten; his hour exam slipped by. As finals came, to study he sought Lamont's quiet calm, Another girl; his finals flunked; he's now in Vietnam.

The moral's clear; it's obvious -- don't let them in, I pray. Though sweat socks smell, girl's legs are swell. BEWARE THE JUDGEMENT DAY! Richard N. Olans '66