by Danny "Don Juan" Henrey
It is an ancient college scout
And he stoppeth you and me.
"By thy soiled white coat and rheumy eye,
Now wherefore stopp'st thou we?
The Yale Club's doors are opened wide -
Within our fancy scoff;
We'll circulate, blow smoke, look cool,
Be schmoozed by hard-up profs."
He grips us with a greasy rag,
There were some lads, quoth he.
"Naff off! Unpaw us, bleth'ring twerp!"
'Ang on a mo' - 'twas thee!
East 44th about us danced -
And shimmied like an eel;
We could not chuse but list to him
About our queasy keel.
The grimy wight, he cleared his throat
With coruscating retch;
His eyes burned bright, bum cheeks squeezed tight,
His addled thoughts to fetch.
Eftsoons begins his narrative:
The lights in hall burned bright,
The portraits glowed, the tawny flowed,
The talk was recondite.
We gazed on him with wild surmise -
Aha, you haughty turds!
I've served and fetched, and on the way
Caught up some jazzy words.
Recondite in nooks and niches,
If not on postgrads' bench;
They spout pure guff - such half-cut stuff
To make Athena clench.
The plates are cleared, Lord Tony cheers
"Trinity, you may smoke!"
He lights a spliff of finest kif
And takes a mighty toke.
The port came up upon the right
From the 'gator-guarded vault;
And to the left is sent around
Without surcease or halt.
And Harper grasps his knobbly pipe
And stuffs it with weird flake;
The reeking fumes suffuse the room,
And writhe about like snakes.
With lolling heads and circling eyes,
With will and reason compromised,
With modesty's sure, swift demise,
The roar, as one, goes up:
"Fetch up more port, and chocolate torte!
Quick - charge the half-filled cup!"
Steve rips his gown full lengthways down,
And formal wear asunder;
In tight white shorts, thund'rous retorts:
"Behold, behold the wonder!"
Guy feels the groove, must needs remove
The impulse from his soul;
He heaves, and Raymond hurls
Through a stained glass window whole.
Proud P'retzky's ire is fiery stoked -
Back in the hall does dash;
Unsheathes a sword, carves through the horde
And shaves off Coughlan's 'tache.
Undone by second port, sad wight,
Chris sails abstracter tides,
And pines for love, true love to come -
His mare one day he'll ride!
Stretched out below, on gritty planks,
A blotto Henrey sprawls;
He drools, and dreams of wine and cheese,
And northern girls who thrall.
The vibe in time more flaccid grows,
(Well, that is what is said) -
Then, rude and brash, come there a crash
To stir the tranquil dead.
Snarls and spits fell Richard's Aston,
Skew'ring through the lull;
In John V's mitts, who 'side him sits,
There is a glist'ning skull.
"We hunted him with pith and vim -
OUCA gave him succour;
But dragged him forth - 'twas no recourse;
The nasty little sod."
And all about the bony pate
Grew yet some astroturf;
The wat'ry eyes and bare-fleshed lips
Hissed out a strangled curse.
"You all shall know mine infamy -
My name is Frank I Luntz!
I'll haunt you all, mankind appall,
Take vengeance on you chaps!"
The soirée gasps; but Guy unclasps
The skull, and bowls it fast;
Lord Q hits quick, and at a lick
The bonce to Balliol blasts.
Above the din and dervish swirl
Lord Byron's spirit flew;
"At last", proclaimed all dullards' bane,
"My homeboys, my brave crew!"
The tale is done, the scout undone,
Full withered, spent and pale,
He shuffles off, to bother profs
With his rum and doleful tale.
We look about, and reason's rout
Fades shamefaced on the breeze;
"I do perceive - you must believe -
That loon's had too much cheese."
Yet dare not name our long mute shame,
This spectre of the past;
But Byron's love embraces us
With his indulgence vast.