My Faults My Own

One's ponens is another's tollens.

With sincerest apologies to Mr. Whitman

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip now ends,  
The college stands another year, though still no more it spends,  
The Game is near, the Band I hear, the freshmen all exulting,  
While follow eyes the crimson flag, the Yalies we insulting;  
                         But O Tom! Bas! Rav!
                            O the year we have in store,
                               When Gus and Sietse have left us,
                                  To lead us now no more.

O Captain! my Captain! Gus, hear the Mem Church bell!  
Stand tall—for you Fair Harvard's sung—for you Ten Thousand trill,  
For you TP and TomBasRav—for you town halls a-crowding,  
For you they call, from Stillman still, for yet more club sports funding;  
                         Here Captain! dear father!
                            Lead us forevermore!
                               It is some dream that you would leave,
                                 To captain us no more.

Not the Captain we deserved—the one we needed, true,  
In uniform and beard he served—and fought for me and you.  
The votes are cast, and soon we'll know the prez-elect—and then  
We welcome Yale and know they'll fail to win the Game again;  
                         Ten thousand men want victory!
                            But this much lies in store:
                               Gus and Sietse leave us soon,
                                  To lead us now no more.

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