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When Ritchie changed the commencement site
he took a dark year and gave it light,
so welcome after this cool, wet spring,
the bells of whimsy began to ring,
and when he arrived in a red bulldozer
like an Roman emperor (minus toga)
you knew this just might be an occasion
with gripping drama and rare elation,
but when beach balls appeared and began to fly,
oh, black clouds of frustration crossed his eye,
and one sensed within him a mounting rage
when suddenly he bounded off the stage,
and with righteous sense of indignation
sallied forth to defend L-S nation,
marching straight into the lions’ cage,
where he earnestly endeavored to engage
silly seniors in a socratic forum
regarding the need for proper decorum,
which ended with something less than a shout,
to “put down the damned ball and cut it out,”
and with that he returned to the stage a king,
august, in-charge, and prepared now to sing.
So passed this most minor altercation,
last lesson of an L-S education,
and then we pro-cessed through graduation
with words and music for celebration,
an occasion destined for L-S lore,
that years hence will still make our spirits soar
and forget our fatigue on the long march in.
(Those blue skies alone make kvetching a sin!)
Instead, let’s recall with joy unconcealed
that this class commenced on their native field.
This poem was written by ol’ Bill Schechter
a veteran history dissector who nearly
put Jen Shoemaker in coma
by presenting her with my own son’s diploma
June 2002