A Taylor Christmas
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A Taylor Christmas

With apologies to Robert W. Service

By Helen Wilbers |Echo

There are strange things done under the Upland sun by the students who toil for grades;

Through dorm and hall they moan and call and make their Polar raids.

Down ‘round the Loop these weary folk troop but when finals week heaves into sight

They cast off study’s spell and attend Sing Noel, open houses, and (oh) Silent Night.

 

As Christmas approaches, and winter encroaches, and temperatures fall like a rock,

And Sammy and Swallow (the others soon follow) would much rather drive than walk,

The deadlines crash down and the freshmen all frown as they trudge over Zondervan way.

Fueled by the Bean, they’ll squint at a screen and squirm as their nerve-endings fray.

 

Now Taylor folk are quick to invoke the stress that they must shoulder.

They enshrine GPA and study away until their poor faces look older.

But to work without break will a sorry man make—and maybe a madman too—

And lead to temptation of procrastination and expanding the ol’ Netflix queue.

 

Dead Week’s purgatory: ‘twixt misery and glory, long classes and sweet Christmas cheer

And spirits run high ‘neath the cold Upland sky ‘til nobody can persevere.

Tradition’s the word, and with whooping absurd, forgetting they could fail

Don odd garb without shame and set off for the game, though the cold pierces peacoats like nails.

 

Ten points!—oh the screams could fill Bish Taylor’s dreams as the Trojans triumph again.

Sing Noel brings the tears as sweet sounds fill the ears and they close with a heartfelt amen.

Open houses abound—from Penthouse to ground the Morris men give it their all

And wee Swallow Robin can set hearts a-throbbin’, and all others are sure to enthrall.

 

Then essays and projects, and exams so complex, finished not a moment too soon.

Fridges unplugged and friends duly hugged they head home by the light of the moon.

J-Term brings the snow and men’s boxers on show, but now’s time for family and home.

The grades are what they are—much better by far to make mem’ries within your brain’s dome!

 

There are strange things done under the Upland sun by the students who toil for grades;

Through dorm and hall they moan and call and make their Polar raids.

Down ‘round the Loop these weary folk troop but when finals week heaves into sight

They cast off study’s spell and attend Sing Noel, open houses, and (oh) Silent Night.

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