(Jim Horan '99)Copyright ©  All Rights Reserved.

We sing to praise you, oh graceful fowl,

Your majesty to behold,

Of sweeping wings and outstretched neck,

And numbers not foretold.

There was a time you were too few,

We suffered with your plight.

But now your act is together,

In increasing flocks of might.

You've shown yourself resilient

To obstacles untold.

Here you're showing all of us,

A newness that is bold.

A mystery does surround

A matter that is quite curious.

The subject has in fact

Made some folks rather furious.

A rose by any other name,

Is still but just a rose.

But what you left for us to view,

Disturbs the fragile nose.

We've pondered long and hard

To name the substance found.

It's every where we care to look,

It's strewn upon the grounds.

Some might care to offer,

Calling it a nasty poo.

More to the point we've heard,

It sticks on shoes like glue.

A scientific sort could refer to it

As some condition of detritus.

But others claim it's really just

A growth source for the Iris.

Small children gasp and ask

In a manner rather smooth,

When gazing upon the mass,

"Is that called number 2?"

The debate rages on and on.

We're really darn confused,

As to what to call this stuff

That melts into an ooze.

We've sought advice both high and low,

To help with this dilemma.

There must be common titles to use,

So we can solve this riddle.

Finally we queried a smart fellow,

A wise man name of Schmidt,

He smiled and offered us the answer