It was the decade before last, for time moves fast
That a partner made an offer, ’twas the beginning of a roller coaster.

Though he mastered exacting retainers, the partner had no skill for meeting the deadlines printed on calendars;
He did not relish taking irate calls from survivors of tiny falls,
Nor did he deign to meet the spiritual twin of Boss Tweed,
A rotund fella, a relic from his fathers’ infinitely more successful era.

Thus soon his paychecks bounced, calamities that given my precarious state were most pronounced.
All leading to a Christmastime departure, amidst noises about his office and its pending foreclosure.
And so it was learned, that you can’t coast on your Daddy’s name to earn-

Well maybe you can,
But you gotta avoid being the second generation of Presidential men
Who vomit on dignitaries in Japan.

–Submitted by Z.

They fuck you up, your ambitious summer gunners,
They do not mean to, but they do.
They’re always asking your Managing Director questions,
And saving some more, just for you.

But they were fucked in their turn,
By academics with pipes in corduroy coats,
Who half the time watched Court TV
And the rest was spent courting tenure track votes.

Biglaw hands misery onto man
Rows of books and binders upon the shelf.
Retire as early as you can,
And don’t hire any summer associates yourself.

-Anonymous submission