Fitzsnaegle & Shortshanks

In our last issue, we published two poems found taped to the door of one of the female dormitories on campus. After printing them and posting them to our blog (where they are currently available for your review), the Vessel email account was flooded with messages claiming to be from the poems’ authors. We received hundreds of emails in just a few weeks, each attacking—in verse—the other author for faults including unattractive physical appearance, disregard for chivalric principles, lack of skill on the ukelele, and imbecilic poetry. (This last criticism, to be fair, applied equally to both authors.) Attempts to identify the authors by tracing the emails were fruitless, and they did not respond to repeated requests for comment; as a result, we were prepared to ignore the controversy in this issue. This past week, however, Campus Security officers working the graveyard shift discovered that someone—or someones—had thrown rocks through the front windows of both male dormitories. The following poems were attached to those rocks: the former poem at Oak Hill and the latter at Red Hill. As a result, due to the increasingly violent nature of this conflict, we thought it was, again, in the public interest to publish these poems. We urge all campus denizens to be on the lookout for any sign of these crazed, lovesick poets before they cause further damage to the campus or to each other. –the Eds.

To the Illustrious Mr. Beauregard Shortshanks

Harper Fitzsnaegle

Why, sir, I think I owe you thanks,
Your sight is shorter than your shanks!
The girl of wondrous socks must weep
To hear her mouth is full of sheep!

Despite what you would seem to think,
There is no strong romantic link
Between this lady’s lovely teeth
And her wild heart which shines beneath.

And what mad thought could generate
This plot to just incarcerate
A scientific paragon?
Is that how you try ‘order’ on?

In short, good sir, you’ve got it wrong,
There’s no real music in your song.
The stuff of love falls from above:
Toothpaste is not the key to love.

However great your love may be,
Your love’s a pond to my love’s sea!

To My Dearest Harper Fitzsnaigle*

Beauregard Shortshanks

You monstrous man of bumbling verse!
Upon you and your cow—a curse!
Let not my brilliant rhymes confuse.
I’m really kind of ticked at you.

“To learn how to be good but free.”
Ha! Ha! What does that mean to me
who put my stock in naught but this:
That she might read my verse and—bliss!

You thief!  Idea-snatching, fowl—
I give to you my deepest scowl.
It looks something like this: >_<

An unpoetic thought I know,
But don’t allow your hope to grow,

And think thee not to steal my queen.
I’ll win this girl of pink and green!

*We presume the misspelling is a deliberate insult. —the Eds.


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