by Danny “Don Juan” Henrey
Or, a vision in a dream – animated by a divine afflatus, swathed in abstracted contemplation, circumvallated by a meditative trance, seasoned with fantastical musings, enveloped in a stupefied fugue, basted in chimerical imaginings, while eating crisps and watching the telly. A fragment.
In Trinity did Tony Q
A tatty MCR decree,
Where port, in tawny rivers, flowed
Along staircases gnarled and bowed
Down to the sun-splashed Broad.
So twice five ells of cobbled ground
With randy scholars were girdled round;
And there were gardens where they supine grilled –
Those pallid, seedy, drowsy, mawkish wights;
Who ’pon the sylvan patch much tawny spilled,
Quenching the blameless hours with lush delights.
But oh! That deep, romantic pulse which throbbed
Athwart the nerdy quads and owlish nooks!
’Twas Mad Jack Schulze, the well-bred, tweed-clad yob,
Gunning his antique Aston by Balliol’s kerb,
As fossil dons dart back basilisk looks.
“Who disrupts our slumbers?” the arts grads grunt,
As fitful stir they on the wayward punt;
And vaguely more Tokay trickle ’pon the toes
Of carefree nereids, stripped of pumps and hose:
Meanwhile, in lodging chamber dank and stale,
Doge Oakley mussitates, “I must not fail…”
His mind a stew of algorithmic zest,
Garnished with reveries of friendly breasts:
And Bronek, weary pent in business school,
Doodles Jane’s image, and begins to drool.
Five ells meandering with mazy motion
The tremor murmurs on, and Raymond gasps,
And flourishes with quill his autograph,
“This fine doggerel will promote commotion!”
Whilst in the parks, Coughlan bowls a fizzer,
And skywards fires the ball from Walter’s bat:
“Oh Guy!” Mary cries, “I say! Owzthat! Owzthat!”
The shadow of the MCR
Unfurls around the dreaming spires;
Directed by a wayward star,
Youthful longings set afire.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A scruffy common room beyond all price!
A damsel with a Fender Strat™
In a vision I once saw:
It was the fairest Yorkshire maid,
And on her keening axe she played,
Singing of Mount Ebor (aye).
Could I revive with me
Her symphony and song,
I would not keep boring thee,
With these verses recondite,
And rhymes that are but mostly…not very good;
But build that MCR in air,
That mouldy carpet! Those athletic lice!
And all who heard should see us there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His blootered eyes, his grimy hair!
Taser him not once but thrice,
And clench your cheeks with holy dread,
For he on college scran hath fed,
And swigged ten pints in Paradise!