Don’t let third-week make you blue: rhyme your way though

Monday, January 26, 1998

Don’t let third-week make you blue: rhyme your way though

Horey avoids serious issues, abuses his journalistic license

Greetings from the world of print journalism, Bruins. How’s
third week treating you? If you’re anything like me (and let’s face
it, you often wish you were me) you’d like nothing more than to
kill third week and all that it stands for. (Killing third week is
a challenging proposition, however; considering that it is an
abstract idea more than an actual living thing.)

Yes, third week brings with it memories of bookstore lines and
readers and syllabi and wait lists and PTE numbers, but can those
things hold Viewpoint (and consequently, yours truly) down?
Probably … but not definitely. So today, as a service to you (and
as therapy to myself), I publish the following poem, penned by my
own hand, to remind us all exactly why we’re here. (Attention south
campus students: this is not a one-word poem titled "Money.")

The first thing any good poem needs is a catchy title, and that
was the first thing this one got. ("Why on earth did we start
classes a week after every other UC campus so that our spring break
and graduation are a week after our siblings’ and long-distance
significant others?" is an example of an appropriate, but not
"catchy" title.) Our little literary marvel for today shall
henceforth be known as "Third Week Poem." (Simple, straightforward,
artsy.) Join me, won’t you, as I flex my muscles as a journalist
and spread my literary wings.

"Third Week Poem"

Well, it’s finally third week; the first two really sucked.

I hope no one expects me to put the f-word in the second line of
a poem.

So those lines didn’t rhyme, I promise I’ll do better.

This quarter brings a new album by Pearl Jam and Eddie
Vedder.

Now you see there, I rhymed; it’s not that hard to do.

So easy, in fact, that three out of four UCLA athletic recruits
can do it, too.

OK, that was a cheap shot – I shouldn’t mock Shea.

But we sure didn’t need him to beat the Trojans Wednesday.

By now you may be thinking that I’ve strayed from my topic.

But it’s my poem (Mine!) and nothing rhymes with "topic."

So thanks for your concern, but in the future let me be.

Sit there reading the paper, and leave the poeming to me.

The topic was third week, but it hardly stands alone.

The third week of the quarter has little identity of its
own.

That was, of course, until I poemed about it.

"Poeming" and "poemed" are both words, I promise it.

Yes, early in the quarter there is little to do.

I whine about wait lists, and listen to the Foo.

Foo Fighters, that is, I thought I’d slip them in.

For a guy whose friend offed himself, Dave Grohl has quite a
grin.

Of course I’d be grinning, too if I had a million bucks.

Instead I beg for PTE numbers and tell URSA online that she
sucks.

But all that is behind me – I’m enrolled in five classes.

No thanks to my department – people in Franz are all … well,
they don’t help.

I know those lines didn’t rhyme either, but I’m trying to keep
it clean.

I swear plenty at URSA, you know what I mean?

Now I know that you’re thinking, "Boy, I thought you loved
URSA!"

And I do (thanks for caring) but then, you rhyme with
"URSA."

Besides – I know as a psych guy we hurt most those we love.

Just ask O.J. (in Esquire) – by the way, "Where’s my glove?"

All right, that one was tacky, but I try hard to rhyme.

Because I want to please you (and my editors) all the time.

So I go through the trouble of making my column a poem.

And I leave out the cuss words so the columns to grandma, I can
show ’em.

Look at that – in a poem I can invert the language!

But rhyme to that when I do, makes it reading a challenge.

I think maybe for now we’ll use regular English.

That’s a fabulous reason to mention my favorite band, Phish.

Can you believe it, I love Phish, but I don’t toke the
reefer.

Although it is much more tempting during first and second
weekers.

No, I’m just kidding, grandma; I never smoke pot.

But I sure drink that cough syrup you sent me a lot.

And be that as it may, I love UCLA.

With my graduation looming just eight weeks away.

It’s so special, our Westwood, with the green construction
fences.

Because we own the Trojans, present and past tenses.

Sure, we know it sucks that Joe Bruin’s ugly now.

But it could be much worse – UC Davis has cows.

So stand up straight, Bruins, and show me your pride.

Go eat all your Shakey’s – their chicken is fried.

First-years, take your fake ID and head down to Maloney’s.

The guy at the door never cares if it’s phony.

The important thing is that you get to drink beer.

So what if that means you spend seven years here?

You’re serving a sentence you gave to yourself.

So don’t cry to me, see someone in Student Health.

They’ve relocated now, to the Arthur Ashe center.

But that doesn’t make my nose look any better.

Self-conscious, you say; you should see it in person.

It’s really quite large and I can’t rhyme with "person."

I suppose maybe "worsen," but it’s too late now.

It’s time to end this poem, but I’m not quite sure how.

I’ve rhymed and complained and rambled and praised.

But like most of my columns, no real issues I raised.

I guess that’s my job, to make smiles and not frowns.

To write a newspaper poem for the people of this town.

And yes, third week sucks, but it’ll soon be all right.

Until then, thanks for reading; U-C-L-A, fight-fight-fight.

Justin Horey