by Chris "Childe Harold" Oakley
If thou shouldst plash of Afric's scorch'd grove
And shouldst blend Canaa's citrine tang,
And apples pluck, in wild Worcestershire rove,
With Bartlett fruit that does soft in mellow autumn hang;
Add Gallic grapes (oft in Ambrosia's tapestry wove);
Mix Harvey's nectar (whose lauds Dionysus often sang),
And sweet cherries: the best of sunburn'd Tuscan trove
And present in baskets steel stainless (with whose merry chime the College rang),
Then thou shouldst know life indeed:
No more secrets could she yield to thee.
O mixture mesmerising, think of this as we feed,
That in verity, to perceive thee is truly to be!
Thou golden face with cream artifice embellish'd;
Calm mirror of eternity, think on us
Whose turgid days are but whines and hopes perish'd,
That we may comprehend peace, freed from earthly fuss.
Stark serenity! Without amenity
To feel for Earth's vexed coil:
But is't not said that through tears is found grace: vanity
Unlearned through bitt'rest toil?
And when Cain does his brother maim,
Or murders forth Attila, death's dark raven,
What doest thou, pudding lame?
Art thou sick, or art thou craven?
Indifferent pulp! No more praise I'll sing to thee!
Not to bleed for man's self-inflicted pain
Is to fail the celestial Ph.D.
Of thou, to whom Abel cried for help in vain.
Concoction cacophonous, murk micturation,
Sicklied o'er with the pale cast of custard,
Forc'd am I to express reservation,
And seek instead a sweet to be trusted.
'Tis not hard: for the lawless men of Trinity
Are oft brought low by the apricot crumble;
And if thy afters are to find utility
To better the world, then what better than this: effective, yet humble?