Mario Carpanzano

Westhill High School

Class of 2001

→ Join 2416 Alumni from Westhill High School that have already claimed their alumni profiles.
→ There are 52 classes, starting with the class of 1943 all the way up to class of 2025.

MARIO'S PROFILE

This is a limited view of Mario's profile, register for free or login to view all their profile information.

Mario Carpanzano - Class of 2001 - Westhill High School

First Name	Mario
Last Name	Carpanzano
Graduation Year	Class of 2001
Gender	Male
Hometown	Stamford, Connecticut
Relationship Status	Married
About Me	In this village, a little boy is given a gift of a horse. The villagers all say, "Isn’t that fabulous? Isn’t that wonderful? What a wonderful gift." The Zen master says, "We’ll see." A couple years later the boy falls off the horse and breaks his leg. The villagers all say, "Isn’t that terrible? The horse is cursed! That’s horrible!" The Zen master says, "We’ll see." A few years later the country goes to war and the government conscripts all the males into the army, but the boy’s leg is so screwed up, he doesn’t have to go. The villagers all say, "Isn’t that fabulous? Isn’t that wonderful?" The Zen master says, "We’ll see." NOT of the princes and prelates with periwigged charioteers Riding triumphantly laurelled to lap the fat of the years, Rather the scorned—the rejected—the men hemmed in with the spears; The men of the tattered battalion which fights till it dies, Dazed with the dust of the battle, the din and the cries. The men with the broken heads and the blood running into their eyes. Not the be-medalled Commander, beloved of the throne, Riding cock-horse to parade when the bugles are blown, But the lads who carried the koppie and cannot be known. Not the ruler for me, but the ranker, the tramp of the "road, The slave with the sack on his shoulders pricked on with the goad, The man with too weighty a burden, too weary a load. The sailor, the stoker of steamers, the man with the clout, The chantyman bent at the halliards putting a tune to the shout, The drowsy man at the wheel and the tired look-out. Others may sing of the wine and the wealth and the mirth, The portly presence of potentates goodly in girth; Mine be the dirt and the dross, the dust and scum of the earth! Theirs be the music, the colour, the glory, the gold; Mine be a handful of ashes, a mouthful of mould. Of the maimed, of the halt and the blind in the rain and the cold— Of these shall my songs be fashioned,...(read more)