....and way past midnight we were on our staggering way,
had happily spent every single cent.
On Friday nights no homework made us stay,
'cause weekends, all agreed there, simply meant
that batteries depleted through the week
in endless studies and much class attendance,
had to be charged again, this was no freak
of nature, or a man-made situation.
I'll sum it up in one revealing sentence:
Each weekend was an ethanol-replenishing vacation.
The local boys were targets early on,
as simple farmers, all lacked an awareness,
that students with no money equals con.
The many tricks we thought of shattered any fairness.
'How would you like', we asked the man in Sunday jeans,
'to have a beer poured inside your left shoe?
I guarantee that not today and not by Monday
your feet be wet, five dollars I 'll bet you.
Of course he lost as only one got wet,
but even farmboys wouldn't take again a bet
that they had lost before; a misdemeanor
would be committed every single minute.
Extracting money for more beer was the intent.
On Friday nights we, all of us were always in it.
We lived at Uncle Al's, the twelve of us.
A farmer, butcher, full of ancient Nordic pride.
He wanted us to study, daily made anew a fuss.
When we went drinking Fridays, that man sometimes cried.
So, homeward bound and singing loudly now,
we noticed none of us had brought along a key.
The question was we'd have to get so cleverly somehow
inside the premises, without old Al to see.
I climbed the downpipe then, with muscles of the young,
got to the top, had one foot on the sill,
was straining hard to reach the strap that hung
down from the gutter when I suddenly felt ill.
Three stories of a downpipe with ten singers
now froze in awe of urgent sounds of wretching.
When content of a stomach hits it drapes itself and lingers,
they didn't have a real choice concerning catching.
As Newton's Law so clearly demonstrates:
All objects find their targets down below.
And this applies to all inebriated states.
It's called 'throw-up', yet it is down you throw.
Old Al woke up, and, with metallic voice,
surveyed the scene and up went all his hackles.
He yelled: 'My way with all you rotten, misbehaving boys
would be to tie you down and put your bloomin' legs in shackles.'
Next morning saw a tired crew of 'leven,
big buckets, giant ladder, brushes and much soap,
scrub every inch of Al's but lightly tarnished stucco.
We're done by noon, then Al said 'It's my hope,
that as the future of this country's generation,
you'll reconsider your perverted weekend binges,
how would the leadership of a much respected nation
climb up a downpipe when the choice so clearly hinges
on only one who climbs the ladder of success,
who would then open up the door to all his friends,
instead of climbing into nauseating mess,
that covers all of you
and makes so little sense.'