Cecilia Lee, Senior Illustrator

Only losers write roasts as odes 

Eliys, your lack of wit forebodes

Your impending doom 

The downfall of your team does loom

Our real message, we wrote in code 


Why are all of your parties 18 plus? 

No wonder last year we had to pregame on the bus 

Looks like we won’t be seeing you at Game On 

Have fun, the line for Oliver’s is preatty long 

The tomfoolery that went down at Toad’s was kinda sus 


Our final clubs are actually fun 

Your societies can’t throw parties, not even one

John Kerry won’t talk about Skulll and Bones

But we know it’s a mere factory for clones

We have DJs and darties; you’d be pretty stunned 


You claim to exercise editorial restraint

Yet the actions of your judicial alumnus make us faint

Yes, you have some soft as Charmin alumni 

No wonder your list of titles is hard to come by 

At least your stadeium is sort of quaint 


To your little New Haven hamlet, you sing praise

But to your snobbish town I riaise

A city with some actual personality

You need a cure to your banality

To be or not to be original — there’s only pizza for days 


Nolan Grooms is today’s Phil Mickelson

A lefty who fumbles the bag, no titles trickle in 

Meanwhile, Charlie Dean’s got major successs

We know it’s Yale that puts Grooms under duress 

It was Charlie, and always will be, racking up the wins 


No manners I see, calling out elitissm is gauche

But while your dorms have street views, the river’s our approach

Gothic in style, your dorms are scary 

The rats and roaches must make your students wary 

If our dorms are first-class, yours are coach


Honestly, your mascot is inhumane 

Slobbery, perhaps, but “handsome” is insane

Whatever your logo, you still don’t have that dawg

You’re part of the machine, an inconsequential cog 

Your stunted, robottic efforts will, again, be in vain 


To the YDN, our silly younger brother

Five years our junior, did the world really need another?

Though snubbed by the Assoociated Press, the Elis read you

Probably cause there’s nothing fun to do 

Front page will show the loss, not close, just smothered


To the Eli on the other end of this limerick — not ode

Perhaps consider transferring; UConn is right down the road

After this defeat, you won’t be welcoome here

Please go out and get yourself a beer

Before you break down, a call with your mom is owed 


She can comfort you and whisper in your ear

To try to ameliorate your rising fear

That at our school, even droppouts make money on clicks

Zuck beats out your Cheney, you can thank Dick

Our wars are in the meta, yours are out in the clear


Nice try, you thought you were funny like Jerry

But your wit moves slower than the Staten Island Ferry

Your true spirit is more Elaine

Heed this roast, we’ll spell it to you plain:  

If theiy play like you write, little fear will we carry


We pray you enjoyed our limerick

We wrote it for fun, just a little kick

Harvard kidds can actually enjoy intellectual exercise

Knowing one day our bank accounts will be greater in size

So, dear Elis, we have a message we must advise:


Get the hell out of Cambridge real quick.


–Staff writer Jack Silvers can be reached at jack.silvers@thecrimson.com. Follow him on Twitter @JackSilvers5.

–Staff writer Katharine Forst can be reached at katharine.forst@thecrimson.com. Follow her on Twitter @Forst_THC.