Imagine waiting perched above his head
The peril with which thou art ceilingèd.
Those students from your womb untimely ripp'd
To Loker's cold and empty hearths were shipped
And now sleep where sweet Starbucks should be sipp'd;
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O, where the merry Fly-By line should be
Behold the piteous cries of refugees!
Ye jesters who would scoff at Stoughton's fate
Or Hollis-ites forced to evacuate—
Ye who would laugh at such a grievous state,
Though now in Grays or Thayer thou feelst free,
Know that the Mem Church bell hath tolled for thee!
Shall Weld be next? Or Hurlbut, or the MAC?
Shall we awake one morn to cry, "Alack,"
"Thirteen more first-years have been Pennypack'd!"
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