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by Jenny "Lady Caroline Lamb" Krasner
'Twas Byron Eve, and ten old posers
Did dine in Newstead Abbey's halls:
Hooray Hoey was Bonnie-bent,
As verbiage bounced off the walls.
"Beware the Balliolite, my son,
The jaws with pipe, the claws with match;
Beware the Popplewell bird,
And shun Lord Quinton's bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the twitly foe he sought -
So rested he in Trinity cellar,
And drank four pints in solemn thought.
And, while is silly thought he wavered,
The Balliolite, with bloodshot eyes,
Came crashing over the Trinity walls,
And burbled to its demise.
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The hardened blade went snicker-snack!
He left it better off, than it was before,
And went a-skipping back.
"And hast thou slain the Balliolite?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!"
Lord Quinton said, "Callooh! Callay!"
And chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig and I donned my gown
And slithered into Newstead's hall:
To meet a quite unusual fate -
'Twas Balliol's bandersnatch 'pon my plate!