Sir, you're from Oxford, seat of bliss
Arrived in the Metropolis;
We hold you well and think we can
Make you, in your despite, a man.
'Tis here our wont, though strange it seems,
To deal in solid facts, not dreams;
For lies are lies, and gold is gold,
And men are daily bought or sold.
Parade the purlieus if you wish
To study poor-law and fried fish;
There's much that waits to be improved,
And an improver's rarely loved.
Or yours is the creative touch;
We have a score of shops for such,
Where novelties in paint and words
Are scrutinized by lonely herds.
Colour and motion are aglow
In streets above and tubes below.
We energize: to meditate
Only befits a culture-state.
Such friends we'll give you as will prove
The world is only made of love;
But life is necessary too,
And vices, seeing you are you.
For in this pantomimic scene
There's nothing common or unclean;
You lodge upon the second floor
And opposite a noted whore.
So, when your dreams are laid to rest,
You're part of what you most detest,
And know this nightmare was made real
To dissipate a false ideal.
_EVAN MORGAN_
(_CHRIST CHURCH_)