busker

Come fools and philosophers

Message from old Oxford mucker with results of a donnish Dylanesque competition. Rather funny, just for its Englishness.

Yonks back as grimey Eng Lit undergrads, we never missed an oration by star lecturer Christopher Ricks. Had I known then that he was such a Bob Dylan fan, I'd've orchestrated a casual crossing of paths when I was toting my Santos Beirão guitar ... but I digress.

By way of celebration of the election of the Prof as Professor of Poetry at Oxford, my buds held a comp for a suitable song, with passable results:

Iain

I was heading for the campus
In my, luxury machine
It was full of dictionaries
You know just what I mean
The outlaw and the cardinal
With Rose the Choctaw Gypsy Queen
I let them get inside
We drove up to the college
That looked just like a jail
I asked the warden where to park
She said 'follow that whale'
Then they led me to the podium
He said 'we’re gonna doctor you'
And I just said 'adios'.

Geoffrey

Come fools and philosophers wherever you are-
You all suffer by stretching your logic too far.
Stop thinking, chill out, and go to a bar.
There you'll find some commons sense lurking
Or follow academia's star,
For at least it's better than working.

To lecture just read some text word for word
to hung-over students who give you the bird
then do some research that's completely absurd
and of course there’s occasional marking.
A few students might even manage a Third,
but at least it’s better than working.

Rory

Oh, professors draw their pensions
Head down a dreaming spire.
I’d ask them what their chatter was
And how come they all retire,
But their conversation wanders
And it tangles up my thought
To see a senior common room
So deep in vintage port.
Oh, mama, can this really be the end
To be punting down the Cherwell
With the Oxford blues again?