WEBVTT

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There is a happy
feeling going, of--

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on a theme which has come
to delight me as a teacher.

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The theme that we
as teachers manage

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to destroy our students
slowly, but steadily.

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I'm not sure this
is all our fault.

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The fact remains that freshmen
are somehow or rather so

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much nicer than sophomores
and keeps going that way.

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Anyway, if we could
retain the enthusiasm

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that freshman have up until
the time that they're seniors,

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this would be about all that
I would ask of a college.

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This is a frivolous
poem, inspired poem

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about freshmen who
are building a fire,

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as freshmen during the
fall for homecoming games.

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These sort of things.

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It's called the Freshmen Fire.

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Pardon me.

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The profs are closeted,
changing the courses, bickering.

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The juniors and seniors are
plotting the sunset of empire,

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the sophs are whispering,
dickering, lickering,

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snickering, but the
fresh, the lovely fresh

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are building a fire.

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The fresh are building a
fire bigger than mountains.

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The fresh have eyes that
candle for Phi Beta Kappa.

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Ears that listen, souls that
splurge like a fountain.

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The fresh are the salt of
the Earth and the pepper.

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The flames of the
fresh just fire

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up with slog, into the lickerish
night of the snickering

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sophs, into the sinister
junior, senior smog.

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Into the windless caves
of the crowded profs.

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If sophs with fresh were to
turn, not soph-wards, fresh,

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what world were ours?

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What fire?

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Gosh.

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