This story was originally published in print, on April 9th, 2024, in the Satire Edition of the Scarlet, the Shartlet. 

’Twas the night before Spree Day, when all across Clark, 

not a first-year was stirring, not at all in the dark.

The labs in Sackler were closed up with care,

in hopes that no flood soon would be there;

The first-years were nestled all snug in their forced-triples,

while worries of exams in their dreams made ripples.

No overdue essays were turned in online,

and no one called to complain about The Scarlet’s decline.

 No fan mail was dropped at the President’s door;

even the mold took a rest from growing ever-more!

And the RAs on their patrols, and I in my room,

Prepared for tomorrow’s impending doom.

When out on Red Square the came such a clatter,

I sprang from my smoke spot to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash, 

and ripped my dab-pen as I threw up the sash.

The streetlight glistened upon my copy of Foucault,

gave a lustre of midday to objects below.

When, what to my wondering eyes did appear,

but David Fithian ’87, my President so dear!

With his seven clydesdales prancing all the way, 

I knew in a moment it must be Spree Day!