Twas 4 weeks after Christmas
And all throughout Killian and Company
Human Relations pondered over
Who would be the next intern/employee?
[Not a promising beginning, poetry fans. Try tapping your toes to this next stanza. It's a major challenge, since every line has a different number of syllables.]
The staff in their cubicles, all snug in their chairs
While visions of lunch in Chi-town were their only main cares
The big boss in his office, and me still at Miami
Both nervous and wondering: our hands remained clammy
[Normally, we discreetly edit out any references that could identify a person or institution, but since there are two Miamis, we left it in. They can each cringe, and pray it's from the other one.]
When out in the mailroom there arose such a clatter
Employees from all over crowded to see what was the matter
Back in my apartment with a smile laid back
I knew once they'd opened my letter; there was no turning back
[This stanza falls into the category ... no, strike that. This stanza lurches drunkenly down the basement stairs of the category Rhythm, stumbling into synchopathology, a word we just made up.]
The sun on the streets of busy Windy City
Gave the luster of midday to 322 S. Green
When, what to their letter reading eyes should appear?
A girl with some spunk, and evidently no fear
As Ivory goes along with a substance called soap
Everyone looked at each other with a small gleam of hope
"It's time to stop letting all the normal folk dance
And open our eyes, and give this chick a chance!"
[We'll stop here, although it goes on, and on, and on, and on for some time. Get a long little doggerel? We'll spare you the Yoda-like "Graduating college she is!" because we're getting all clammy. Again.]