by F.R. Duplantier
Whatever became of what’s-his-name,
The kid with the freckled face
Who lived next door
When I was four
Then left without a trace?
Whatever became of what’s-his-name,
The clown who yelled “Here! Here!”
When Mrs. Kohl
Would call the roll
Then one day wasn’t there?
Whatever became of what’s-his-name,
That walking store of knowledge
Who made it clear
In senior year
That he had no use for college?
Whatever became of what’s-his-name,
The one we dubbed “The Beast,”
Who went unshod
And sneered at God
But was called to be a priest?
Whatever became of what’s-his-name,
The grunt with the Southern drawl
Whose purple heart
Had bled a quart
When he shipped back home one Fall?
Whatever became of what’s-his-name,
That jivy junior exec
Who in a crunch
Went out for lunch
And left on a wilderness trek?
Whatever became of what’s-his-name,
The gent on the bench alone
Who every day
Watched children play
But with the birds has flown?
Whatever became of what’s-their-names,
Whose faces I still can see?
I wonder, Do
They wonder too
Whatever became of me?