The Love Song of Dartmouth’s Frat Bros, Translated from Hahvahd™ T.S. Eliot’s "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by Murray Constantine

Si je pensais que quelqu'un aimait se réveiller pour drill à sept heures et quart,

je le supporterais avec un sourire joyeux,

mais je me retrouve seul, ma flamme prête à être soufflée par les vents froids de janvier

et ma bougie arrosée à partir de l'alcool du mercredi soir.


Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a TDX boy blacked out upon the basement floor

Let us go, through floors of half-deserted stacks,

The mutterings of facts

Of drunken nights in one-night fraternities

And rivers of Keystone Light eternities:

Streets that follow like a tedious term project

Of insidious homework neglect

To lead you to an overwhelming question ...

Oh, do not ask, “Did I fail?”

Let us forget and go to tails.


In the basement the brothers come and go

Arguing over who to Venmo.


The weed-scented fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The weed-scented smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,

Licked its tongue into the brownies cooling in the kitchen,

Lingered upon the pools of batch on the sticky floors,

Let fall upon its back the dust of overeager freshmen dorms,

Slipped by the icy stairs, made a sick flip in white Adidas,

And seeing that it was a ragin’ October night,

Walked on soft paws down frat row to claw at the doors.


And indeed there will be time

For the weed-scented smoke that slides along the street,

nesting in the cramped stalls of Wheeler’s bathroom;

There will be no time, there will definitely not be time

To prepare a sober face to show off to interviewers;

There will be time for a thesis to create,

And time to waste days on work and play

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the bell rings for Sanborn tea.


In the basement the sisters come and go

Talking of that one douchey frat bro.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I flair?” and, “Do I care?”

Time to wonder which of my classmates is a billionaire,

And how much does he pay for his hair —

(They will say: “Bro, your shoes are so fly!”)

His Canada goose coat, his button-up’s collar popped high,

His necktie richly colored, secured with a pin subtle and sly —

(They will say: “But weren’t his grandparents alumni?”)

Do I dare

enter the universe?

In an edible there is time  

For hours spent in starry clouds which a minute will reverse.


For I have known them all already, wasted them all:

Have passed by the 9Ls, 10As, 6Bs,

I have measured out my terms with red bull and coffee;

I know the voices dying with a dying final

Beneath the soft sound of KAF’s sweet tease.

               Tell me how my prof I should please?


And I have blown the finals already, blown them all—

The finals that fuck you over after having studied for days,

And when I am sleep-deprived, sprawling on a chair,

When I am bashed and blazed on the green,

Then how should I fare

To misuse the term’s end of days and ways?

               And to whom do I send my prayer?


And I have known the arms already, known them all—

Arms that are untanned and white and clothed

(And when the weather surpasses fifty, seek the Green and UV rays)

Is it the perfume of new grass

That makes me from classes digress?

Arms that flee from basement tables, or wrap themselves in flannel.

               And should I then find solace out of houses?

               And how should I escape?


Shall I say, I have gone at eleven through frat row

And smelled the perfume that rises from joints

Of turnt boiz in pastel polos, leaning out of windows? ...


I should have been asleep an hour ago, maybe three

yet I slide across the floor, lost in a hazy sea


And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so stressfully!

Smoothed by excessive alcohol consumption,

Asleep ... tired ... fearful of Samaritan presumption,

Stretched on the couch, searching in Baker for sanctuary.

Should I, after free food and Foco and Collis late night,

Have the strength to challenge my DBA to a fight?

But though I have wept and stress-eaten, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen red-marked midterms brought in upon a platter,

I am no STEM major — and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the potential employer regard my GPA, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.


And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the Novak coffee and Sanborn tea,

Among the red solo plastic, among matches on friendsy,

Would it have been worth while,

To have to have sent off that flitz with a :) (smile),

To have typed my heart into a blitz

To send it towards some intimidating upperclassman,

To say: “I am Doc Benton, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, you will fail that midterm”—

If one, eyes rolling in her head

               Should say: “yeah bro I’ll take that L;

               Worse things happened to me last fall.”


And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been wise to chug,

After the slap cup and the harbour and the stickied doors,

After the paddles, after the crushed cups, after the bean boots that sludge along the floor—

This before finals, and so much more?--

It is impossible to study what I should!

But as if a MacBook laptop soothed nerves with a glowing screen:

Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a beanbag or throwing off a fracket,

And turning toward the window, should say:

               “CS is so freaking hard,

               This is not what I want at all, fuck it.”


No! I am not President Hanlon, nor was meant to be;

Am on door duty, one that will do

To better a tails, start a scene or two,

Advise the president; who may, or not, be a tool,

Self-credential, glad to be of use,

pastelled, crew-socked, and top button loosed;

Full high of substance, but more than a bit obtuse;

At times intentionally ridiculous—

But eager, always, to play it cool.


I get drunk…I get drunk…

I shall wear my old fracket I found in the junk


Shall I wear a Canada goose? Do I dare sport Vineyard Vines?

I shall put on my corduroys, and start the hashtag LonePine.

I have heard the acapella girls singing at Cheese and Wine.


I do not think that they will sing to me.


I have seen acapella groups performing in frats late at night

Wreathing with the voices Keystone Light has unbound

When the winds of finals drive students underground

We have lingered in basements forested with amber trees

By sorority girls wreathed with flair sequined and green

Till SNS voices rouse us, and we flee.