The world at once congratulates
You thus and shines your shoes of clay.
If you had thought adults would stay,
Now you were one of them, no way.
They have their fine and private fates.
The mail is waiting for you now,
The bills for what you sort of learned
Come due. The boy next door has turned
Into the B.Sc. he earned.
He is somebody’s coming cow.
Under the spreading money tree
A place is laid, a bowl is set.
Next to a replica Corvette
The wineglass is already wet,
The truth, they said, thrown in for free,
But not quite yet. Maybe next year,
When Milton is a funny name,
Like Shelley, and a sense of shame
Attaches to the rhyming game.
The aging profs are staying here,
As out of life as buggy whips.
The cars depart. The swans take wing.
The ugly ducklings stay and sing
A dirge to Intro Everything,
But offer no investment tips.
May you grow stout and just and long
Of patience. May your muscles ache
From all the sanctioned loot you take
Off citizens whose contracts break.
Now disremember every song.
Speak only prose, and cadence that
With small affect. Here comes the sun.
It shines on you, and everyone
Believes your day has just begun.
They know the world, your world, is flat.