Thy mournful eye in upturned gaze doth look
to Yale-font “Information” up above
as though some fool thy wrinkled face forsook,
denying thee a bulldog’s share of love.
Why lie thee there with legs a-splayed behind?
A guard hath no such pathos in his gaze.
Yet what else would my dear Yale send to mind
The record of my halcyon college days?
A student but for one semester more,
no welcome from thy frown do I receive.
Thy doleful stare doth company implore;
in truth thine eye seems sad I soon shall leave.
O! jowly hound, woe that the end is near!
Small comfort ’tis, to still have half a year.