Aidan Cooper '22


Distant Alurums (of Miley Cirus’ Party in the USA)





These steps proveth villains to waking thought

Entrenchéd in th’ ignorance of fletchlings:

Treachery and wickedness here breath draws,

Yet entranc’d be my exhausted trotters,

Spurring my frame toward yonder lodging,

Whence the sound of angel-love inspires.

Heaven! Such bless’d melodies could ne’er

Been made presents to men of false flag!

What harm, in this suburban middle-class

Empire, could befall this jester cunning,

That would not dissipate in morning dew?

None, I say, since the sharpened blade of night

Be rudely ceased by mail of hunger sort.

Before the portal stained stand I in wait,

A herald, this knob, to doom or glory.

Farewell moon; parting is such sweet sorrow.

Fair lawn, recall mine acclaimed complexion

If ‘tis marred by abundant confection.

Once more unto the breach, I pass, once more!





Step in feral time, and supplement will,

Or that ceremony of early leave

Shalt command mine temple, and in transport,

Exile my state to gown and iced cream; nay,

Bedridden I am not! But hush, how now?

Stay, senses; jesters do oft prove prophets!

These gluttonous faces indulge in feast,

Consuming desserts of speckled nature

And in marriage, scarlet Kool-Aid juice.

Their tooth’d wave shall submerge sweet beaches;

Drown them in English merriment, say I!

God hath bestowed me with fervid hunger

That knows not the bounds of trifling custom.

Is this a cupcake which I see before me,

The frosting toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.



Sir, that is not how you pick up a cupcake.



Mine ears canst predict the hellfire that builds

And smolders ‘twixt thine idyllic teeth and tongue.

I sense thou art a mirror to our author,

Whose hate hath birthed disformed pentameter

And odd cake-butchering convictions both.

Oh, chatter! ‘Tis my taxed seal over-inked.

‘Pardon’ should be the first word of my speech.

Thou ne’er long’d to hear it, chiefly in th’ mood

Of which I now chuck in the boiling pot.

Pardon me, O kindhearted pigeon-egg!


BRENDA (to Partygoers)

Who the hell invited this guy?


BRENDA exits



Damnéd fool! What ungraceful words were those?

Pigeon-egg! Fouler praise I have yet offer’d.

Dost the fashioned chords of this ‘sick beat’ so

Derive jacks from my amiable tongue?

And the hunger, my sacrilege of cake,

Stolen from its compact cup of parchment,

Hath burrowed emboldened eyes unto me.

A cake! A cake! My honor for a cake.

I cannot recall the wicked design

O’ the night, nor my intentions for it.


Exeunt all but FULSTUFF


To leave, or not to leave; that is the question.

The foolish mind hath revealed th’ festive gloom

And its vile nod to the accurs’d Devil,

who, upon the throne smotheréd crimson,

plays I for a fool, a shout of fiddle,

Doom’d to usurp gentle silence in th’ time,

But to die thereafter. Shuddering sense,

Contend with refinement in shadow,

Not in thine naked state, for this kingdom

Proves a puzzling read for even I,

Who am versed in the enlightened culture

That hath devis’d it from marbled columns.

The course of nature never did run smooth!

Alas, with questions left upon my head,

My sight advances to a modest bed.

Farewell; I return thence to the proper time,

My mitts engulfed still with bespeckled snow.

Here, my play has ending.


Exit, pursued by a pelican.

A Shakespearean Attends a House Party

Art by Iris Wen '24