Written April 24, 1913 at age 18

You may talk about the weather,

Of about the crooked crooks;

Or about the old shoe leather,

But don't talk about school books.

Geometry is harder'n hail,

And colder that the Pole:

It's enough to put a chap on bail,

For it's blinder than a mole.

The next thing on the program, pard,

Is algebra, you know;

Why do folks make us think so hard

Before to home we go?

Some girls are just as bright as gold

In Latin and in Greek;

But what care I when I am told

The trout are in the creek?

Another subject, don't you know,

Is history, 'specially ancient;

Those dates will never from me go

Because I haven't them yet.

But, after all, I guess 'tis 'yea',

We spend much time in study;

For where's the lad who likes to say

He knows no more than putty?

Our teachers soon won't come to school

To make us plug so hard.

It's time we had a rest from rule;

Now what do you say, pard?