After First Beers, First Years Cry First Tears

By Evan Bernstein

Oct. 21, 2014

After quite a night of drinking and thinking, smarties at parties had too much Bacardi and fell into a well of crying and sighing, not one son denying sadness and madness from gladness came quickly and thickly to them all.

Alas, to be crass, the ass will amass if resumption of consumption continues en masse. But lo, it is so, as they already know, they just can’t be stopped, crop-topped or not, the drinks can’t but flow, the stinks can’t but go, the winks can’t but show the pine for wine or Bordeaux.

Behold, what was old is no longer enrolled. The new slew are too few to be uncontrolled, but some search for fun when the work day is done, and so go to Frat Row and sip slow and get low.

The liquor was flowing with nobody knowing the fate to await those who chose to intake. Each sot thought t’would not be he, but see, they were wrong, for before too long, the creeping sound of weeping would keep them from sleeping.

Vexed and unsexed, and somewhat perplexed, the students of prudence adjourn with concern that they learn how to earn what they yearn. Already drunk, and in quite a funk, the mates of the bunk decide to confide, dry-eyed no more, no pride in store, the tears fall in rows like a girl’s pantyhose.

And only in deep sleep, counting sheep without peep, does riot cease and quiet peace replace traces of faces and places. So slumber well, for who can tell, dear first-year whose first beer sent all things to hell. The morning will bring the bitter-sweet sting of headaches and heartbreaks and every damned thing. But know when you rise, when you open your eyes, recalling appalling decisions unwise, you’ll know what it means to grow out of your teens, and you will wish you had gone to Cornell.