You wouldn't know this wasn't a shitty Emily Dickinson poem if I didn't tell you, volume 1: Emily Dungeonson

There's a room @ ye olde university called The Hut. But it's a completely inappropriate name. Because I've never seen a hut, before, that looks like this.

You're goddamn right that's stained glass. Venerable. Estimable! So I have re-christened the room The Emily Dungeonson. I'm going to make some little signs and put them around. Please, no food in The Emily Dungeonson. Covered drinks only in The Emily Dungeonson. Don't leave possessions unattended in the Emily Dungeonson.

Hey, didn't you study this poem in 8th grade AP lit?

I stepped aloft and tried my place,
A slanted phosphor hem -
Shifting crossways, through the sluice
Of Creon's diadem -

White despair of forge nor flange -
Snakes cackle's blackest mirth

And merriment - of calico -
A shiver in - the wood
Of crinoline circumferences -
Was heaven's counterweight -

Also, here's a picture of one member of a fairly prominent music duo - I can't tell you which, because I don't want the jig to be up - wearing pajama pants festooned with pink cartoons.

Also, it's hard to make out, but if you squint, you can tell that, although he's wearing a sweater, the tail of his hot pink pajama shirt is peaking out underneath.

Ahhh, Mondays. Let the work week begin.