The cast is ever changing, be it at Old Eli its ownself Or various other institutions, most sans ivy, Their distinguished here-and-gones A touch short of presidents and laureates, And certainly the songbook has changed (Out with the Crosby and Waring, In with the Cobain and the Stryper) But certain verities, gnawing and implacable, Remain unchanged, the inevitable realization That, for all one's promise, all of our ilk Have preceded us in our arrival, flush with pride and promise, And made the odd ripple or two, perhaps, Before shambling onward to other things (Very rarely bigger and better, sadly enough) And all those songs we sang and steins we hoisted Have now been consigned to less fashionable quarters In the anterooms of memory, The melodies and laughter filtered, transformed, muted The sound not unlike the slightly discomfiting bleatings Of some distant barnyard animal.