The class is graduating, Reyburn sits at her study-hall desk, Mattingly looks at her shorthand class, Yes, all the teachers lament and weep.
'45 is finally here.
I hate to see you people go,
McCrum says with a leer.
A tear drops from her eye.
"You're the nicest class we've ever had.
I hate to say goodbye."
It's a terrible thing, I swear,
When you seniors leave old OHS,
The place will seem so bare.
We're supposed to think it's bad.
With a class like ours, they could leap and scream,
But we still know they're all darned glad.- - - Class Poet
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