I could write Hamlet, but Shakespeare could never write a sonnet about the Barnumbia Freshman bar culture

O cursed be thine plot on Amsterdam,

Where 1020’s neon glow doth lure the youth anew—

In flocks they come, in tops of Edikted glam,

With IDs fake and hopes as fresh as dew.

Fair freshmen stumble through their vodka cran haze,

Their cheeks aglow with both rouge and deceit.

While I, in sweats, avoid their gleaming gaze,

Out-stunted by their six-inch-heeled, stomping feet.

The corner’s cursed!—at 111th I pause,

My keys in hand, a tote bag full of takeout and shame.

Their laughter, loud, like fate’s unkind applause,

Reminds me that I’ve lost the stunting game.

Let this be carved in stone, for all neighbors to see:

Dress up, or stay indoors, post half-past three.

Image via Bwog Archives