Since my humble college start
Thou hast twistèd love knots on my heart
Those same whorls of dough of which thou art form’d,
Of which my soul is too adorned,
Puff like clouds from Bon App kilns
And add saltèd hypertension to student ills
Topped with hard salt and brown’d by egg,
Thy simple scent causeth students to beg
For when our mitten’d hands deign to pick up thy saltèd knot
We shall but then be content to learn what we’ve been taught.