Here beginneth the Book of the Tales of Bwog…

When April with its sweet showers has
Pierced the dryness of March to the root,
And bathed every air molecule such moisture
As has power to revive the students,
When, also, Prezbo with his weather machine
Has breathed spirit into innocent first-years
On every lawn of Butler, and the young sun
Exacts vengeance upon those without sunscreen,
And seniors scramble desperately and
Sleep with their eyes open all the night
(So their natures prick them in their hearts)
That people long to pitch their ideas,
And students long to seek strange posts
And far-off shrines known in Lerner 510,
And, at 9 PM, from the ends of every shire
In Columbia they come to Bwog,
To seek the holy blissful grapes
That fed them when they were hungry.

Holiest of pilgrimages via Wikimedia Commons