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by Greg "Fletcher" Cohn
You Brits are rather insolent, you know,
At being disappointed in your wish
To supersede all warblers here below,
And be the only eagle in the dish
And then overstrain yourself, or so,
And tumble downward like the flying fish
Gasping on deck: you soar too high, Albion,
And splat! Food for cats, and rather dry, Albion.
Though I don’t wish to foment another revolution,
It’s no wonder Byron copped a boat for Venice,
As entertainments go, search your souls for a new one;
I’d suggest a few, but I’m sure you’d take it amiss.
Though I’d dance, sing, or play guitar if I could tune one,
On the whole, I’d rather take the piss;
But of all your institutions, if I were to lampoon one,
There’d be no broader target than the Oxford Union.
These gentlemen, during this very moment
Must surely be at their own jokes a-roaring;
THEY may think their debates politically potent
I assure you I find them unbearably boring.
But more likely than not these boys will run parliament—
You all should be frightened, whether Labour or Tory.
You may find this portrait rather a cartoony one,
But then again, you may all be in the Uni-on.
I’d feel the same way if I paid ninety pounds
Just to look at William Morris on the li’bry ceiling;
But you must show your card at the bar for cheap rounds,
Which is why I’ve come here—to get myself reeling—
And if leather armchairs and plush carpets abound
It seems that sharing these comforts is less than appealing;
Skip the billiards, clear the jazz bar, don’t use the spittoon;
It’s strictly members only at the dear old ’Un.
If all this may appear a raging social gaffe,
And I seem to have made of myself quite an ass,
You need hardly be told that it’s all for a laugh;
A familiar excuse when I’ve been acting crass:
Forgive me: I’ve finished a bottle and a half.
And so to my friends I now raise a glass
I’ll remember this evening, it’s been quite a fun one—
Let’s drink a toast to the old Oxford Onion.