Art by O. Rival '21
I was born in a little old burg
Called Boston, Massachusetts
Ma and Pa never loved me much;
To them I was just a nuisance.
At twelve years old I started my path
At the local equestrian center
I got the idea I might ride away
And go on a blue-blooded bender
When Pa yelled I didn’t have the guts,
My upper-lip didn’t give a quiver.
I whispered dammit Pa you may be right
But at least I still got my liver.
What’s a WASP-y boy to do
but sing this cold and lonely tune
Years passed by and I turned eighteen
admittance letters came in the mail
Ma spoke to me for the first time in months
Said you ain’t fuckin goin’ to Yale
Well I got to Harvard like ma wanted,
And there were fraternities to rush
The booze and co-eds left me
With an inch of rope to push.
What’s a WASP-y boy to do
but sing this cold and lonely tune
I graduated with a 1.5
And a job at my pa’s firm,
But apparently the way I talked
Made my secretary squirm.
I kept my job and Cindy didn’t.
Guess that’s how business works.
December I got my bonus–
connections’ little perk.
What’s a WASP-y man to do
but sing this cold and lonely tune
My apartment was feeling lonely
So I figured I ought to find a wife.
I’d known Jan Humphrey since we were twelve
(before she went under the knife).
Spent three months wages on a diamond ring
And hid it in her golf glove.
My parents approved and hers did too
So the only thing missing was love.
What’s a WASP-y man to do
but sing this cold and lonely tune
Ten years later my triplets were born,
And I gave each a respectable name.
Blond haired blue eyed all alike
Were Preston, Quincy, and James
At Dartmouth all three defended
For their varsity lacrosse team.
They settled out of court, but
Still owed those girls Big Green.
What’s a WASP-y man to do
But sing this cold and lonely tune
Quincy and Preston found good wives,
But James had always been funny
Imagine Jan and my surprise–
His butler’d been calling him “honey”.
Quincy is a finance man
Working at Morgan Stanley.
He sees his kids on weekends,
and they never eat as a family.
Preston died at twenty-eight
In a tragic boating mishap
As he gassed up he lit a cigar
A little too close to the fuel cap.
What’s a WASP-y man to do
But sing this cold and lonely tune
I retired around a year ago
and live quietly with Jan.
James visits just sometimes–
Does that make me Peter Pan?
That’s the whole of my life,
And you’ve heard my sordid tale.
The only way it could’ve been worse
Is if I had ended up going to Yale.