By the curb of far north Broad Street,
By the steaming blacktop roadway,
At the doorway of the Law School,
In the muggy summer morning,
Francis Mulligan stood and waited.
All the air was slightly noxious.
All the earth was less than joyous.
And before him, through the smog bank,
Westward, toward the neighboring jungle,
Passed in motley swarms, the Students,
Passed the owls, the money-makers,
Weeping, wailing, of their test marks.
From the brow of novice Darrow,
Gone is every trace of sorrow;
As the cop from out the red car,
As the con from out of Moko.
High above him shines a red light,
Orange spread his shoes before him;
From our hands received this present,
Sparkling, flashing free from fashion.