The College Song of J. Nathaniel Baker by John Baker

(A parody of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot)

A college education never hurt anyone who was willing to learn something afterwards. --Emerson

Lettuce rows, and carrot slice,

And Thousand Island spread out against the plate

Like a Sambo's salad oxidized upon a plastic matt;

Lettuce rows, with scatterings of wilted red cabbage,

and hard, inedible croutons.

Of drunken nights in Freddy's on the wash

And pool tables over slippery sawdust:

And marijuana smoke circling over the lowered dim lights

Of hideous ingest.

To lead to an overwhelming question . . .

Oh, do tell me, "Where am I?"

Let me make it home tonight.

In the wash the unholy women come and go

Stinking of Michelob.

The dark yellow smoke that spreads its stench upon the clothes,The lighter brown second hand that settles in the muzzle, up the nose

Spreads its grunge into the corners of the lungs

Lingering over pool tables hovering in rows,

And seeping through the window cracks into a hot desert sky,

Ignored by police, who park in dark corners and look,

From the other side of the wash on an Arizona night,

As we make our exit, and they decide whom to book.

And I pray there will be time

For the yellow smoke to dissipate from my fingers,

Rubbing my hands with after-shave;

There should be time, there should be time!

To prepare my eyes to meet the eyes that I may meet;

There will be time to sober and straight,

And time to finish my salad and side o' fries

Licking all the dressing from my plate;

Time for me and time for you,

And time for a hundred drops of Visine,

To restore our vision from red to white,

Before the crossing of a wash or two.

In the wash the unholy women come and go

Stinking of Michelob.

And of course there will be time

To sober, "Do I dare?" and, "Do we dare?"

Time to stand up and breathe fresh air,

With a headache in the middle of my head--

(They will say: "How his head is in a spin!")

My army coat, my bell bottoms hanging wide and thin,

My freak flag long hair pony-tailed in a pin--

(They will say: "How sick and pale his skinny skin!")

Do I dare

Leave our half-filled pitcher?

In a minute there is time

For departing and restarting which a pitcher will decide.

For I have been here once before, been here before--

Have been on bar stools, booths, and dinner tables,

I have measured out my life pouring perfect heads;

I know the voices of the unholy women climbing

Down the wash to secret places.

So why do I resume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all--

The eyes that watch you cross the wash in your Pinto,

And wait for you to make that one mistake,

When I am stoned and stumbling on the fall,Then when should I begin

To spit out the fragments from the roaches?

And why do I resume?

And I have known the unholy arms already, known them all--

Arms that are tattooed and legs that are bare

(But in the armpit, downed with dark brown hair!)

Is it the beer stain on her dress

That makes me so impressed?

Unholy arms that drag me through the wash, to Cinderella's ball.

And should I then resume?

And can I perform?

* * * Shall I say, I have gone at all hours through narrow dorms

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of party men in Springsteen-sleeves, hanging over balconies? . . .

I should have served in student government

Following future leaders who live in castles by the sea.

* * *

And all through the morning, through my first class, I sleep so peacefully!

Pillows covering my head,

Asleep . . . hammered . . . becoming one with my bed,

Stretched out in last night's clothes, with my dog "Monique" beside me.

Should I, after coffee and Ding-Dongs,

Have the strength to force myself to shower?

And though I have gotten pretty wasted, wasted and crazed,

Though I have felt my brain (still throbbing) lose precious cells,

I am no dropout--and my life still matters;

I have yet to experience my moment of greatness,

And I will someday see the Limousine driver hold my coat, and bow,

And in short, I will prevail.

And it will have been worth it, after all,

After the pitchers, the unholy women, the weed,

Inside the Pinto, among the talk of you and me,

It will all have been worth while,

To have bitten off life with a smile,

To have squeezed the university into a ball

To roll it toward some overwhelming career,

To say: "I am Elvis, come from the dead,

I ain't nothin' but a hound dog, hunk of burnin' lead"--

If we, with two center-folds under our arms,

Should say: "This is what it all meant.

And we got it all."

And it would have been worth it, after all,

It will have been worth while,After the sunrises and the wilted salads and the soggy fries,

After the read through and the rehearsals and the nerve racking performance

And this, and so much more!--

It is improbable to expect just what we dream!

And as if a magic picture appeared on the test pattern screen:

It will have been worth while

If we, appearing as guests on Johnny Carson,

And turning toward the audience should say"

"This is what it all meant,

"This is how we got it all."

* * *

No! I am not Sir Lawrence Olivia, nor was meant to be;

Am a big fish, in a pond that will do

A drama degree is quite worthless too;

Am a student, a schoolboy, my voice is my tool,

Egocentric, glad to be cast,

Dynamic, ruthless, and head of the class;

Full of monologues, but a bit obtuse;

I do not always act so ridiculous--

At Freddie's, sometimes the fool.

I get stoned . . . I get stoned . . .

I shall wear the bottoms of my bell bottoms rolled.

Shall I get a haircut? Do I dare eat a bean?

I shall wear cut-offs, and walk upon the wash.

I have heard unholy women bathing, but never coming clean.

I do not think they clean for me.

I have seen them dancing on the tables for a buck

Lifting their dresses and winking at us

And tempting us to stay in this life.

We have lingered in the back seat of the Pinto

With wash-girls who cover themselves in white

Till policemen wake us and take us home.

The College Song of J. Nathaniel Bakerby John Baker

(A Parody of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot)