GENERATIONS Copyright (C) 1997 by Not Nice Music II. A COLLECTION OF OBSCURITY by Edwin M. Drogin 6. Outgnashing Nash Be assured that it's highly intentional That this speech shall be unconventional. I will be the first to admit that the state of the nation deserves an oration And that there is grinding of axes On death and high taxes By people of varying wits Who periodically throw public fits. Well I happily state, as I stifle a laugh, That I've only one wit and it's half. Such wits can be better employed, According to Freud, With knitting and sewing And political hoeing. But, this is hardly the hour To be the party in power, So I will forego any political screeching And talk about teachers and teaching And artists, and students who write long reports About spark coils and meters of various sorts. Teachers in Cooper have a glorious mission They're happily engaged in a war of attrition. They grab innocent freshmen of all shapes and kinds And seek the elastic limit of their little minds. They stuff them with knowledge in an increasing flow And kick all those out who absorb it too slow. Until some emerge in four years or five More intelligently dead than dumbly alive. But this, I admit, is only fair If there is any truth to the rumors I hear, That many an instructor now putting on a show In reality died twenty years ago. Now to classify instructors into all sorts of types There are instructors with cigarettes and instructors with pipes. There's the instructor who questions all day He asks thousands of questions in everywhich way He pulls questions from his cuffs, from the books on his shelf Until you think he's engaged in a noble attempt to learn the subject himself. And then to go to the other extreme There's the boy who is on the beam. He queries and answers all in one breath And never allows you to correct or advise Or squeeze any answers between his replies. He is just carrying on the ancient tradition Known as "impressing the students with your erudition." There are instructors that mumble and instructors that shout There are instructors that sit and that leap leap about. There are instructors that curse you year after year. When you pass them in the halls you tremble with fear. And then comes that glorious day when you receive your diploma And you find that they are in a convivial coma. They smilingly approach to shake your hand and wish you lots of luck. When all the while you were frantically searching for a place to duck. But I've stuck my neck out far enough Talking about teachers is dangerous stuff, So I'll switch my sights to safer ground And talk about the students I've seen around. The artists are a Bohemian bunch The boys grow beards and never eat lunch They paint with glee and sculpt with zest And never dress in their Sunday best. And around this school There seems to be an unwritten rule Whether they stick in or whether they stick out Whether they are boyish slim or stylish stout Whether they are dancing the waltz or crawling around on their knees Every girl student wears dungarees. And it seems to the engineers that every artist loves to paint pretty girls without clotheses From Rubens down to Grandma Moses. But Cooper Art students are really tops They win everything from Fullbrights to lollypops It seems to be as catching as the measles You'll find blue ribbons on all the easels. The freshmen art students we adore They cannot paint and they cannot draw They hate all moderns and they remember some math Which incurs their seniors' unholy wrath. But alas, in a year they are broken down They never again call burnt umber, brown. When they go on their numerous trips to Camp Green They fill the register with jokes obscene And think engineers are a bunch of schnooks Who spend all day just reading books. Which brings me to a topic dear, Which I can talk about all year. The group that's in a gentle stupor The Sophomore Engineers at Cooper. We're known by the bums and the hoi-pollois As the weirdest bunch of sliderule boys That ever pushed a slippery stick. We do our problems so darn quick We get the answers before the equations And spend the rest of our calculations In the development of a brand new cult Known as "working backwards from the result." We study very hard, and everybody crams We really know our stuff, right after the exams. The Civils are a motley crew They throw chalk and erasers too And when it rains or snows, they pack their grips And go on geology field trips. The Chem-E's have the greatest fun They take more lab than anyone They can wire circuits and boil water A real catch for someone's daughter. The M.E.'s took 4 midterms, they don't know what to do If they do not pass their finals, the Navy's got a crew. The E.E.'s are the smartest boys They never make a bit of noise They take a special Physics course and study like the devil, To pull their averages down to everyone else's level. But, do not get the wrong ideas We are the greatest engineers. We merit appreciating Some of us will be around for awhile We've got a 2s rating. They'll let us slave for two more years Before they pay our one way fares To Army camps and Naval stations Where we can use our force equations To help us eat those government rations. Well, that should about cover the situation I've come to the end of this caustic oration. But, the longest poem I ever wrote Must perforce end on a serious note Good luck to my fellow E.E.'s And CE's and M.E.'s and Chem E's I have just one request Please, pass every test. And Now I'll cut off this torrent of verse Since it can't possibly get any worse, With a couple of words, namely two: Thank you.