Michaelmas Week 7/8

Things got a bit hectic in weeks 7 and 8, what with it being Oxmas an' all, and everyone being too busy getting rat-arsed and larking around in the lack-of-snow for any of this poetry nonsense. As you will see from my poem though, there were important occasions afoot. Our great and much-beloved President Sir Tim Lancaster was leaving us, and had invited each year group to a drinks reception in his lodgings. Thanks to the kindly recommendation of Dr John Watts during my presidential collection (a scant 4 or 5 hours before the aforementioned reception), I received my third and most prestigious commission yet. 'Pressure' does not even begin to describe it. Anyway, this one is dedicated to Sir Tim...I hope you are well Sir, wherever you are and whatever you may be doing, I can safely assume the drinks receptions will be EXCELLENT.


President’s Drinks and Short Notice

Earlier today as I made my way across the quad
And hoped to God that sodden shoes and rain-soaked gown
Would not provoke our host to frown,
I expected no more than a passing inspection
Of success (or its absence) from my formal collection.

But then Dr Watts kindly trots out a nod to my job as the poet,
"What's this" says the President "I didn't know it"

"Say aren't you attending my party tonight? Perhaps you might
Like to write a line"
And to such a request who am I to decline?

"Well why not" say I, "I'll give it a try",
It's at this point I think that my heart starts to sink,
And other parts feel they could use a stiff drink.

For of course it’s a source of great pride to be asked,
But I've masked the slight terror I feel at the task.
A poem for Sir Tim, however you spin it
Is not to be done at the very last minute.

Oh well, once more to the breach dear Ben
I think as I reach for my paper and pen.

And now that I'm here it's clear that my fear was unfounded
To see all the year I'm astounded,
To think how much time has gone by,
At Oxford I'm sure it really does fly.

I find I'm recalling my very first Michaelmas,
When our host most kindly again asked all of us round for drinks.
I wonder what he thinks of us three years on,
Probably something like "What went wrong?"

As we trudge on through our third year with dread
(Hoping finals will pass if we just stay in bed),
And think in three years just how much things change
By the end it’s no wonder we're all a bit strange.

But I hope you agree from year one through to three
We've been blessed with an island of calm in the sea
CCC, our Corpus (or as we call it home)
Keeps us safe when by stormy oceans we're blown.

And I think when it comes to the man at the helm
That we couldn't go wrong with our knight of the realm

So from all of your last ever outgoing class
I thank you Sir Tim, and raise my glass.