It hunkers like a clammy slug
Behind the treeline twigs of March,
A basilisk, a box, a bug,
A plug of pasty Gothic starch.
But that could change. It often does,
As boxes, clams, and plugs may leak,
And cherry blossoms come, becuz
It’s April sometime late next week.
by Rick Mullin
Editor’s Note: This poem pokes fun at a building most people would consider impressive, and by proxy, also pokes holes in the seriousness with which the weight of history imbues such a structure (and its purpose).