*WARNING* Contains mature content and mild language. Read at your own risk.*
A message, a warning,
to all you Generation Wuss-lings
Freshmen don’t OD
They slit themselves with plastic knives,
hang themselves with Ralph Lauren ties,
and chase after older men and women.
They’ll soon discover that
no one will ever know
who Lauren Hynde is,
and all they can do
is jerk off Paul Denton
underneath the table at the Pub.
Sophomores change majors faster
than Sean Bateman goes through a pack of Beck’s.
Sophomores reserve severe hatred for their older
yuppie brothers who gut the shit out of their
sex partners, work rivals, and Louis Vitton models
who perish tragically because they ordered a tuna cappuccino
instead of a carpaccio.
And those damn juniors, those pedantic pricks
who read Donna Tartt like the Bible but only
like The Secret History, those little shits
who write ABANDON ALL HOPE,
YE WHO ENTER HERE
over recital halls and administration office doorways
Damn them for murdering the history majors with
large Nietzsche anthologies, those corpses strewn,
sprawled in ravines with bloody, battered skulls.
and the seniors, the totally fucked up bunch,
whose gold teeth are pulled out and pawned,
who look fondly at the future that looms ahead
with signs that read DISAPPEAR HERE and
JULIAN GIVES GREAT HEAD AND IS DEAD in large red letters,
a future with Fatburgers that have no chili and too much ketchup
The real tragedy is when those fucked-up seniors
Walk away, and walk not into a promising future
but straight into darkness, where Clay’s younger sisters ask,
“Is he for sale?”