he sits and stares at the new group of freshman,
each as fresh as they were the year before.
their hair as perfect as they are thin,
and he wonders why they aren't noticing him more;
he has the same generals and entrance level classes,
though this past year he's blemished again with glasses.
he goes through his usual routine,
asking out the youngest, prettiest girls;
he wonder's what they mean,
when they tell him he 'hurls.'
the slang is lost on his aging ears,
a thing he doesn't realize he fears.
for though the girls are as new as a daisy,
and he sits in the beginning classes as ever;
his skin is sagging and he's gotten lazy,
and the slightest chill can cause a fever.
for he's grown old without choosing from his dolls,
and now he's the sad old man, prowling campus halls.