Photo by George Gastin (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons
Some frat boys borrowed it without tripping the alarm
For dark, secret rights it was procured
So its effluent was endured
The dread night finally fell
And none too soon, because of the smell
Assembled were the initiates
And told they were to be the conjugates
To join, they’d need to rise
As the animal trainer pointed out the wooly thighs
The actives did guffaw while holding their beer
At the pledges all trembling in unbelieving fear
“Dig deep!” came the call
Focused upon one with the most gall
Told to lead the corps
An open tin was set before
Wide-eyed at the peanut butter
All that emerged was a stutter
At this, the trainer did rage
Threatening to take all them back to the stone age
“Would you like the Crisco instead?
“Before I slap you upside the head?”
“Dig deep! Don’t be too long!
“And what’s wrong with your schlong?”
Steeled for the worst and ready to commit
The lights come on – it was all a skit!
It was just a practical joke
Played upon their own folk
But one year they got caught
Because of a dumb mistake in a parking lot
The president said they were spinning wool
Which was really just a bunch of bull
Once the story hit the newswires
To pull it back was ultra vires
Though over twenty years have passed
The story still leaves some aghast
And in their eyes I see the question
That they never ask in their discretion
So I always leave them with a silent grin
And let them stew in their chagrin
Heather Kilbourn 