Herbert Nehrlich

Rookie (04 October 1943 / Germany)

A Glimmer - Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

The campus had been plagued
by much unrest and bigotry,
there was the ROTC, pathetically,
those closely cropped nitwitted
and underhanded opportunists,
their president, he didn't like the word
dean or other titles, though PhD
and membership in learned groups,
prestigious clubs and then the Chamber,
was on the stationery, black embossed,
he ran the ship with iron fists, too well,
there were some fifteen nurses in the school,
administering the dispensary and, also
the student hospital, which, owned by Doc,
a graduate of Innsbruck University,
which does deserve its Dr. Ins. repute.
The students came from all the walks
of life as only poverty normally permits,
to keep them off the streets, and out of jail
they lived the life or Timothy O'Leary,
great master of those wonder drugs,
and Uncle Sam was generous, he paid
tuition and allowances to all, 'twas proper,
of course it made statistics look much better,
the unemployment figures were so laudable,
and only those who could not really read
even the big words on the outskirts of the towns,
were given leave to join the forces to fight evil.

And, after years of pretty silent obfuscation
there was some trouble brewing now among
the student body of the institution, such as,
quick twinkle, twinkle, it was in its own right,
so instantly an urgent new directive had been
despatched by those who counted other things
than pinto beans and tacos, the road was clear,
fix all and any stirrings of those rebels, else,
all major funding will just dry like desert sand.

And so it was that peace returned with haste
to the high desert and all powers were so pleased,
new energies were chanelled into tasks,
such as the making and designing of diplomas,
which only needed a creative common goal.
And soon the graduation ceremonies came,
like rain in Spring when everyone pretends
at such surprise and all did pass, how wonderful,
the work was tough and hefty bonuses were due.

The dealership had stocked a bunch of cars,
well, mostly Four-Wheel-Drives, with fruit,
in keen anticipation of events, proud times
for the community that nurtured the college,
and, through it, those youngsters, future leaders
of a big land where mediocrity is king and queen.

Is it a wonder that the coveted big Prizes,
have gone to those who have a foot inside the cot
that spoke with accents of a European flavour.
Today that great big land is made up of a pot
in which the melting has poured 40 whole percent
of Krauts and Swiss and Austrian descent,
perhaps there is a glimmer on the far horizon,
or two, though one of them may just be armed.

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Poem Submitted: Friday, August 12, 2005

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