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.