If one were to criticize the Features section of The Phillipian (which clearly one would never do because a) it rules; b) Derrick Kuan ’04 is hotter than fresh roadkill on a dirt road in Mexico during July; and c) Anthony Reyes owns a hammer), one might comment on its lack of — make that total lack of — taste, class, and intelligent humor. Although one would be entirely incorrect in this accusation, I personally believe that it’s important to cater to the many tastes that have a place, whether deserved or not, on this campus (Replace “tastes” with “rabid three-legged rodentia,” and I swear to God that sentence makes sense.). Anyway, some of these “tastes,” according to a 107.3% accurate mailbox survey, may or may not include: multiculturalism, anti-racism, terrorism, poetry, and “poop.” Since my less-than-adequate cerebrum (I got in because I’m cute) automatically skips over any word containing the suffix “ism” for health reasons, I have decided to concentrate on poetry in this article. Oh, and poop, too. Now, you’re thinking, “I have a vague recollection of the last time Features attempted poetry.” And then you’re thinking, “It was really bad.” And then you’re thinking, “But the word ‘poop’ was in the first paragraph of this article, so I must continue reading, on the off-chance that it will appear again.” To save you the hassle of having to wash your eyes out with soap, I solemnly promise right here and now not to attempt to make up any sort of poetry, verse, or lyric. Instead, I offer you an intellectual analysis of a real poet’s poetry. Without further ado (Ahh… DOO.)… The great poet John Keats once wrote, “ ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty’— that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.” I think that I speak for the entire world (by which I mean myself and that squirrel that chases me around campus) when I say that Keats could not be any dumber. Or wronger. First off, what is this “ye” business? Y-O-U. Say it with me, please [Megan’s “Editor’s” Note: We have just come to the realization that even if she possessed a tushie in the likeness of Zak DeOssie’s ’03, Megan would still not be cute enough to compensate for the astonishing amount of stupidity God has bestowed upon her. Not to worry; we will have her removed from campus as soon as she comes down from that tree.] . More important than his exceptionally heinous spelling, however, is the complete and utter wrongness of Keats’s thesis. Beauty is truth? The truth is ugly and we all know it. The truth is that the current PA budget deficit has nothing to do with the so-called “stock market.” “What?” you ask incredulously. Oh no, my friends. The budget deficit was caused entirely by Anthony “Busy Worker Monkey” Reyes ’05. To make a long story short, Isham ran out of appropriate sedatives. Anthony, flying into a state of violent hyperactivity, took a sledgehammer to Mr. D’s golf cart. One word: lawsuit. Ugly, ugly, ugly. Since I have proved this point beyond a shadow of doubt, I would like to move on to the final piece of Keats’s so-called “ingeniousness.” To refresh your memory, which has I’m sure been assaulted beyond repair by the positively frightening number of fecal [Editor’s Note: Keats would have spelled it “faecal.”] references in this article, the second part of Keats’ assertion was: “– that is all ye known on earth, and all ye need to know.” WRONG. That is not all “ye” knows on Earth, a) because it’s YOU, moron, YOU, and b) because I know lots of other stuff. “Like what?” you say. Like, if you light the hair of Derrick Kuan ’04 on fire, he looks exactly like the angel Gabriel. And if you tell him that, he will have Busy Worker Monkey Reyes “mess you up.” “What else?” you ask, hungry for the wisdom that only a Lower girl who pretends to have bangs could impart upon you. Aside from the heavenliness that is Derrick, I happen to know that if you light small, limb-challenged forest animals on fire and hurl them from high atop your tree fort behind Morse, you should remember to throw them under-hand so as not to hurt anyone. In conclusion, I would like to leave you with one final piece, or steaming pile, if you will, of knowledge: Everyone is a poet.