From Alma Mater Vol. 2: The Northeast
Available Now for only 99 cents!
Across the Charles River is the bridge of mass builders
who have walked 364.4 Smoots,
Entering Cambridge for the smartest institution,
Right past Harvard to the brainpower’s root:
M! I! T!
In the bibliography of this poem—
Credit the title to Florey, Jack.
The Crimson rerouted to an Orange Tour
In another notable hack!
If not accepted into MIT,
You’ll find another school, so don’t fret :0(
If you can’t hack it at MIT,
There will always be Caltech!
Yale’s classes have pricks, Harvard’s asses have sticks,
There’s only one place for Great Domes to be:
First place in Engineering—Draped in Red & Gray,
With the tools of MIT!
Arise All Ye of MIT!
Let every one of us be a tool!
And with these tools more business is built
Than any other American school!
I Have Truly Found Paradise
Are the words spoken by freshmen accepted,
Then they’re repeated every year like brass rats,
With golden fingers ringing, “M-I-T!!”
After graduation it’s p-sets in Math Stats.
Indeed Here Time Flies Pleasantly.
And time, how swiftly we pass with thee,
Now if only we could pass with a D,
We could bypass 18.466,
And pass gas on tests on entropy.
If Heard, These Farts Panic.
Don’t run! If you can survive the shit at Lobdell,
Then you can endure a little fart!
The heat and fugacity will dissolve,
That is, of course, unless it’s a shart.
I’ve Had This Foul Predicament.
This is a problem that’s easy to solve!
Decompress! Use the slide rule!
Move down the row to the next problem,
Differentiation through proof of the chain rule!
It’s Hopeless to Frequent Procrastinators.
Those who deuce out on Courses 6 and 18,
To prep for Beast Roast, Muddy Charles, and Spring Weekend,
Instead of studying we went to Roast and got high,
Now we’re at exams—on the steep end.
I Hope These Fuckers Pay.
Whoever made these tests are destined to fail karma,
Then drop a level to hell—in the next life,
That’s a downgrade for douchebags expelled,
An Infinite Corridor—of overdue strife.
In Hell Torment Fondles Professors.
Like Wellesley girls without a visit—they’re screwed,
You were a Nazi, so no more soup for you,
At least Welleslians have the Toons to long for,
While they’re eating meat, professors burn in the brew.
Infidels! Here the Fire Preaches!
Just kidding, we love all our ingenious professors!
Especially in the sacred time of IAP!
We know that whenever we stop punting,
They’ll be there to catch us when we’re in need.
I Heart These Funky Professors!
Woop! Woop! Party in Room 54-100!
When the professors get down, hackers break in!
Professors always told us to leave our mark,
So to mark our presence—we left a “sign-in.”
I Have Terrific French Penmanship.
And even better shorthanded—learned through Athena,
She is stroked all day and very much loved
By varied Beavers: Tim, Dick, and Harry,
We worship this Goddess and stroke ungloved.
I Hunger to Fill Pages.
Students seek to be first at the ‘Stute,
Like the web’s first newspaper, MIT’s Tech!
Moving Mind and Hand to unplowed heights
Is what Engineers have come to expect.
It’s Hard Topping First Place.
At MIT that’s just what we do,
It isn’t bad taste to sing our glory,
It’s Bad Taste to sing it like the Chorallaries:
With undertones of a loud FUCK YOU!
In Harmony This Flows Perfectly.
Ahhh, there’s a resonance in the MIT name,
Found in our orchestras, choirs, and bands,
That renders outside noise like, totally tone def,
With terms foreign to man each Engineer understands.
I Have Truly Found Paradise.
Let it ring again like it did freshman year,
Until we sing farewell with a downbeat bass,
The words sound bitter but we say it with love:
I Hate This Fucking Place.
Follow ClydeAidoo.com for more poems from the Art of Mind and Alma Mater series shared daily. You can purchase Clyde Aidoo’s latest release, Alma Mater Vol. 3: The West, a poetic celebration of the top universities of the West by clicking the link below.
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