Goodbye To All That
What storm and strife bestrode our stage,
In times of so-called study,
Our banner, brandished at the age,
A nose, set up to bloody.
The plaudits won by verbal warring!
The hairs perversely split!
How sweet the sound of ancients roaring
Impaled on youthful wit!
What fun to chorus 'Feet of clay!',
Yank idols from their perches,
Poke out the windows bay by bay
And then burn down the churches!
The Powers That Be rocked from their drubbing
At our relentless hands –
But now we're busy money-grubbing,
Quick! Blame it all on glands!
If you have any comments on this poem, Jerome Betts would be
pleased to hear from you.