The Greekers.

I know some of you Wordsmitherd addicts out there are saying, “Where the heck have you been?”

Two words: grad school.

But that being said, while taking a break from my first major graduate-level paper, I was inundated by status updates and such concerning the Greek tap night. So, in honor of tap night, I have tweaked Dr. Suess’ The Sneetches to amuse myself as a mental pause.


Now the crimson-shirt Greekers had T-shirts with Chi’s.
But the green-shirted Greekers were adorned with Pi’s.
The letters weren’t so big; they were really quite small.
You would think such a thing wouldn’t matter at all.
But because they had Chi’s, all the crimson-shirt Greekers
would brag, “We’re the best kind of Greek on the bleachers.”

With their hats in the air, they would sniff and they’d snort,
“We’ll have nothing to do with the plain-shirted sort.”
And whenever they met some, when they were out walking,
they’d hike right on past them without even talking.

When the blue-shirted girls went out to play ball,
could the pink-shirts join in their game? Not at all!
You could only play ball if your T-shirts had Nu’s,
but purple-shirted girls had to pay their own dues.

When the black-shirted Greekers had frankfurter roasts,
or picnics or parties or marshmallow toasts,
they never invited navy-shirted Greekers.
Left them out cold in the dark on the bleachers.
Kept them away; never let them come near,
and that’s how they treated them year after year.

Then one day, it seems, while plain-shirt non-Greekers
were moping, just moping alone on the bleachers,
wishing their plain shirts had colors instead,
up zipped a stranger with a hat on his head.

“My friends,” he announced in a voice clear and keen,
“I have come here to try to save you some green.
I’ve heard of your troubles; I’ve heard you’re unhappy.
But that I can fix; I’m the friend-making chappie.
The dues are too high? I have what you need.
My prices are low, and I work with great speed,
and my work is one hundred per cent guaranteed.”

Then quickly, the man who would save them some green
put together a very peculiar machine.
Then he said, “You want letters like the T-shirted Greeks?
My friends, you can have them… for three dollars each.
Just hand me your money and climb on aboard.”
They clambered inside and the big machine roared.

It bonked. It clonked. It jerked and it berked.
It bopped them around, but the thing really worked.
The commotion attracted the colored-shirt Greekers
All of them wondered what was shaking the bleachers
When the plain-shirt non-Greekers popped out, they were pleased!
The machine had changed them with the greatest of ease!

The plain ones yelled at those lettered from the start,
“We’re exactly like you; you can’t tell us apart.
We’re all just the same now, you snooty old smarties.
Now we can come to your frankfurter parties!”

The brown Greeks jumped in, crimson not far behind
Not to be outdone, the greens were also inclined
Some blue ones wore black now, the purples now pink
The reds were now jade, and there rose quite a stink

“Good grief!” groaned the ones who wore black from the first.
“We’re still the best Greekers, and they’re still the worst.
But how in the world will we know,” they all frowned,
“if brown is now green or the other way ’round?”

Then up stepped the hatted one with a very sly wink, and he said,
“Things are not quite as bad as you think.
You don’t know who’s who, that is perfectly true.
But come with me, friends, do you know what I’ll do?
I’ll make you again the best Greekers on bleachers,
and all it will cost you is ten dollars eaches.

Black shirts are no longer in style,” said the man.
“What you need is to join the shirt-changing clan.
This wondrous contraption will swap out your letters,
so you won’t look like Greekers who say they are betters.”

That handy machine, working very precisely,
swapped all the colors from their T-shirts quite nicely.
Then, with hats in the air, they paraded about.
They opened their mouths and proceeded to shout,

“We now know who’s who, and there isn’t a doubt,
the blacks are now purple and the greens are without.”
Then, of course those in pink all got frightfully mad.
Now not wearing navy was frightfully bad.

Then, of course the man with the green
invited them into his letters machine.
Then, of course from then on, you can probably guess,
things really got into a horrible mess!

All the rest of the day on those wild screaming bleachers,
the friend-making-Chappie was setting up Greekers.
Off again, on again, in again, out again,
through the machine and back round about again,

still paying money, still running through,
changing their colors every minute or two,
until neither the plain- nor the lettered-shirts knew
if a blue one was that one, or green ones were this one
or red ones were which ones, or what one was who!

Then, when every last cent of their money was spent,
the friend-making-Chappie packed up and he went.
And he laughed as he drove right down the main street,
“They never will learn; no, you can’t teach a Greek!”

But the Chappie was quite wrong, I’m quite happy to say,
the Greekers got quite a bit smarter that day.
That day, they decided that people are people,
and no kind of peoples are the BEST on the bleachers.

The Greeks took their money, and went out to eat
They took all their friends, and crowded ’round to meet
People they knew, and even people they didn’t
Talking to plain-shirts no longer forbidden’t

The plain-shirts and color-shirts all got a table
Hanging out free of a club or a label
That day, all the Greekers forgot about letters,
and whether or not having them made them all betters.


  1. The problem, dear Matt, is not the Greek letters; but the snooty Greek members who swear they are better. The colors no longer mean much of anything, but the letters still divide and break more than can be mended by any sling. From the tokes in brown, and the the ladies in red (known for getting around), to the sweeties in pink and the maroon kikes; not one thought is gentle, not one idea kind, but shut them all down and tell me what you find.

    So in conclusion, I WAS in a Greek club that called themselves the brotherhood and yet all I see is distinction. For you new lee people do yourself a favor and never join a Greek club its a waste of time money and effort.

  2. It’s scary how true the original story was.

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