Oxford.

Oxford.

Number one and still, the place to be apparently

Against the darkening sky

So many colleges are called Trinity

Not only in Oxford

How lacking in imagination

Are the pompous

As the sun blinks out in despair

The night splutters into life

As if awaiting permission

To rescue the failing moon

It wanes too soon

Well before the night is over

And the old men sigh

For the passing of days

Too many women cry

Themselves to sleep

Waiting to be recognised

As tired excuses are trotted out

By the patricians,

Chinless and nobs

Washing their hands in a font

Of soft soap

Flogging their dead horses

Seeing no comedy in the divine

Flagelating themselves in private

Wearing their disguise

Of civilised modernity

As the fresh morning light

Uncovers the dust

Brushed beneath the worn rugs

Of the pious

Souls of discretion

Holding on to the truth

Of their objective

Keeping the spires shining brightly

Piercing the sky

The purity of knowledge

Held in disregard

For the sake of a bursary

A full-fat cheque

Written in colonial blood

Keeping the status quo

Delivering a traditional education

For an exclusive club

Of one-percenters

Principally, x and y

Unless Daddy is a rich man

An old fossil fool

Anointed in oil

Smelling of roses

And leeching on legacy.

Know your place

It is on the outside

Enjoy the view

Pretty as a postcard

Of Oxford

On a mantelshelf

Wishing you were here

As trite a message

As “keep off the grass”.

And “not open to the public”.