And what's special about this poem?

We feel vexed, bereft here—me, the present red letter revel’s jerked nerves emcee,
frets dejectedly
by the lectern.
These eyes weep, fetch the Kleenex.
Yes, the
news seems,
he’ll flee when the present semester ends—the welsher. Well then, bye-bye.
When he pressed the news, we were left speechless. We were perplexed—he’s never been neglected here; we felt, ‘hey, the entente’s there; he’ll never defect, he’s tethered here.’ He’s tested the rest, we’re the best.  Whether he even deserves better, we never knew. Everett
—she’s Mrs. N—
the perky, pretty
reel expert,
expressed the very
essence we feel—
she screeched, “Emergency. He left here, flew there. He’s Penn’s prey. Get help! He’s restless!” “Penn?,” we reply.  “He’s demented!  Why Penn??” We felt he’d reject the tendered berth.  Ken yen’ll be meted, ends’ll meet; he’ll envy Penn’s green, yet he’ll dwell here. We were tense, yet serene.  Nevertheless, when he recklessly reneged the Fletcher J. terms,
we beseeched,
The cheek!
The nerve!
The heresy!
Me’n’L.B., clenched teethed, were peeved.  “He’ll wreck the dept.,” she tersely yelled.  Then, we went berserk, felt preempted. We were nettled, we spewed resentment. Therese de V. felt we needed revenge. He’s the enemy!  We’ll peg the legs, let’s set cement feet, we’ll geld—well, let’s heckle the feller.  We’ll get Mel—then he’ll enter the ferment.  Let’s be clever.  Heck, he deserves these jeers—when the dept. meets, he’s never reserved—even when he knew he’d be elsewhere next term.
Well, next September he’ll smell evergreen scents, trek Penn settlements—
where he’ll see deer pelts pegged by beer-belly rednecks—beefy men, they bend the knee when Steelers legends’re present; they’re the dregs, they elect Specter, prefer Veep Cheney—
Penn, where even
the preppy
men reek
brewery stench;
they’re lechers,
they feel well-heeled wenches’re prey, the men’s peckers swell when they lewdly leer the sweetly hemmed dresses, the lengthy tresses. Yet he’ll pretend Penn’s Eden, ever the jewel.  Then,
by next December,
when degrees
get severe there,
he’ll see he erred
when he deserted
the clement west,
where the verdt
secretes Jekel red—
the Fletcher J’s decreed med—
he’ll freeze when he gets dressed, regret the wet sleet, the fevers he’ll get; he’ll be feeble, never get better—he’ll be wretched, he’ll seethe, he’ll feel gypped, yet pretend he’s the Pere’s merry elf. He’ll envy Westchester’s swelter, where the nymphets dress sleeveless.

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