At the far end of Station,
Where the Memorial grass had grown
And the wind smells of Aggies we had once known
And no nuts for squirrels to hoard or to chew,
Is the street of the Spirited Lorag.
And deep in that spot, there is still left
The shop of the Agministrator, Regent Bereft.
With a sign by his door, “no lie, cheat, or theft.”
And there for a nickel you can overpay
to hear how the Lorag was lifted away.
Who was this Lorag?
And what did it say?
Why was it taken so far, far away?
Longly and slowly, the Agmin swallows his sounds
Like a fish eating water, he downed and he drowned:
“Way far back in the land of the free
In the realm of the sacred Century Tree.
When the grass was still green
And the Corps, spit-shined and clean,
I first saw sight of the trees.
The trees, the trees, the Hullabaloo trees!
Their soft, willowy trunks
And the shadowy cool of their cucumber leaves…
I knew at once that this was the place.
I’d chop up a chop and clear me some space.
A hack and a homp and away in a race,
I flattened so fastly
the knoll known as Grassy,
When out of a sudden popped a man dressed smart.
I jumped with a holler, I jumped with a start.
This man dressed so silly, you couldn’t have guessed
if his bowtie was facing north or west!
He had a full furry lip and glasses so round
He waddled around like a duck on the ground.
“Agminstrator,” he rasped like a dry dust bowl,
“I am the Lorag. I speak for the knoll!
I am asking you now from the pit of my soul.
I speak for the knoll and I speak for the trees
You must stop at once, you mustn’t do as you please!”
He was terribly troubled, most visibly vexed.
“What plans have you got, what will be next!”
Dear friend, I said, there’s no need to be stressed.
Just think of all the students who will be blessed
with more space to learn when it is done.
I never meant to hurt anything or anyone.
Then away in a rush, all the rules I did flush.
I was mad as a peacock, I was mad as a flock.
I called all my buddies, I called all my chums,
My dandy donors: Buzbee, Bright, and Bum.
And before you could count to two,
we grew and We Grew and WE GREW!
‘Till the donors had leapt and the Ag majors wept
For the Saffadoo Squirrels who all had been swept
The Field of Duncan was ripe for the chunkin’
Why see the sun when schoolwork’s more fun!
But not before the Elephant Ears…
Oh no, we lopped those off with New Army shears.
With a snip and a slomp and concrete for miles,
We swam in our gold, all poured out in piles!
Then once more the Lorag croaked in retort
“I am the Lorag,” he choked in a snort,
“The Saffadoo Squirrels have no peace at night.
The cranes and the trains give them quite a fright!
They must find home elsewhere, I don’t know if you care.”
Look, my foolish frumpy friend,
I have plans for profits that never end,
to fills these halls with pockets that lend.
Many of thousands and eleventy billions
students in excess will grant us their bullions.
We hacked down every tree alive.
Every last one, till the last Hullabaloo bud.
It fell with thud, the last lonely dud.
No more hacking and homping,
No more ground for the stomping.
All the professors closed their books,
All the cadets marched home,
The lecture halls empty…
For the last time, the Lorag came.
He looked so fragile, frail, and lame.
“Agministrator,” he whispered, in a soft wheeze
“There are no more squirrels, students, or trees.”
Then upward he floated in quickening breeze,
Never to bother me with his unbearable sneeze.
All that remained on the spot where he stood,
at the spot of the last Hullabaloo wood,
was a small pile of books, with one word…
Of what it could mean, I hadn’t a clue I confess.
But now the Lorag’s words are so clear
These are the words that you must hold so dear:
“UNLESS someone like you
cares a whole awful lot,
nothing is going to get better.