When kings of old clashed o’er th’fated crown,
The right to rule, and glory, was the prize.
New centuries of time have trickled down:
Our houses fight a different enterprise.
You may say that to name this challenge after
Those Wars that claimed too many in their ire
Would drown the dead ‘neath our youth-sporting laughter,
Make trivial those real deaths by fire.
But I say No!, is sport not so wide-ranging
To cover all our need for tribal force?
Do we not honour those who died couraging
By fighting on a different field of course?
Well done – our White Rose still is un-Lancaster’d
And next year too we’ll beat that Red Rose bastar’d.
The End is (Almost) Nigh
Dear Reader, I apologise to you
Who by this time has suffer’d more than once
My moanings and my jubilations too
That do the end of higher ed. announce.
You see, when one draws near the precipice
Of Graduation and of Summer’s heat,
They yearn, too soon, for concrete edifice
And fear the fate that they must duly meet.
I promise I will try to bear in mind
That subjects such as these can get exclusive:
Some must work until term’s end they find,
Are young enough to find the End elusive.
But let this couplet hold the dread sensation
Of having two weeks left for dissertation.