CLASS OF 1945 | 2018 | ISSUE 1

Noting my failure to submit notes for the December issue, Donald Dunn sent me an encouraging email urging me to stay the course, refute the arguments of advancing age, and keep 1945 class notes alive, if not well. And thus, the following fragments of Dunn-inspired musings on whoever remains a ’45-er.

May all your days be smooth as silk;

May all your nights be inviolate;

May all your cereal be crisp in milk;

May nothing clog your toilet.

I’ll probably never be famous,/ Or rich, or even well-bred;

I’ll likely amount to just nothing,/ So I guess I’ll go back to bed.

Those Celtic fairies are everywhere,/ And they see everything you do,

So you’d better watch yourself, classmates,/ Or they’ll lay a curse on you.

Friends like you/ Don’t grow on trees,

You’re always true blue,/ Always aiming to please.

I figure I’m lucky/ To call each of you “friend”;

You’re lallapaloozas/ … and like that … The End.

And, slán go fóill.


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