Formaldehyde on fatigues
green on this bald-headed league
– full of vigor, shorn like sheep –
that sweeps the dorm and soon sleeps.
Only to be awakened
by reveille earaching
the tortured troops to withstand
more demands: crazy commands.
Marching to classes in file,
tramping down the urge to smile,
but can’t check the teary dusk—
the eve brusque, full of male musk.
My pate scratches like boar hide.
Will this snowflake get outside
unmarred by rusty wing nuts
with jackboot strut and crew cuts?