What sorrowed sighs for those who drink as alcoholics?
Only the fleeting comfort of the toilet bowl.
Only the brief euphoria of the frolic
Can fill the sunken drunkards hole.
No personal statements now for them, no merits nor A*s
Nor any hope of extra-curricular accreditation –
Only a rum be-spattered deck of cards;
To honour their demise; their degradation.
What lights guide them on toward their final sojourn,
No more in the library, but in Salvation hence
Shall the glory of their doom commence.
The recklessness of the first fresher morn.
They shall not grow old as we who are left grow old,
But forever remain; a creature of the night.
Not in splendour decked, but painted gold;
C3PO a bittersweet testament to their fancy-dress might.
So they lie where they fall; in Coney Street gutters
To the ears of no congregation, only the bouncer’s mutters.
In better times we can but try to impart our knowledge
When, soft, the dawn breaks upon that mourning college.