An Ode to Dean Coole

One noon in November

before club tennis,

old sleep called to me,

the great ceaseless menace.

“You’ll take a quick nap;”

I believed it was true.

I set an alarm,

But then, out of the blue,

I woke up at three

With my legs and arms sore,

and knew in an instant

my dickies were four.

Soon an email from Dean Coole

came confirming my fears;

I would be on stricts for the

next two years.

(okay, two weeks)

I walked to his office,

head hanging low.

I explained the situation,

lamented my woe,

I wailed and I whined,

I begged and I pleaded,

and then good old Gordon

gave me just what I needed

So here’s to you Dean Coole,

for clearing my stricts.

I promise my naps

will cause no more conflicts.