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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 donít wish to foment another revolution,
Itís no wonder Byron copped a boat for Venice,
As entertainments go, search your souls for a new one;
Iíd suggest a few, but Iím sure youíd take it amiss.
Though Iíd dance, sing, or play guitar if I could tune one,
On the whole, Iíd rather take the piss;
But of all your institutions, if I were to lampoon one,
Thereíd 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 parliamentó
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.
Iíd feel the same way if I paid ninety pounds
Just to look at William Morris on the liíbry ceiling;
But you must show your card at the bar for cheap rounds,
Which is why Iíve come hereóto get myself reelingó
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, donít use the spittoon;
Itís strictly members only at the dear old íUn.
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 itís all for a laugh;
A familiar excuse when Iíve been acting crass:
Forgive me: Iíve finished a bottle and a half.
And so to my friends I now raise a glass
Iíll remember this evening, itís been quite a fun oneó
Letís drink a toast to the old Oxford Onion.