| Mortarboard, gown, hood and lace come
|
| guide me in learning, in ascension
|
| tweet in modern Latin, in declension.
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| O Domine, O Magister — we aspiring angels sing
|
| with one tongue, forever young,
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| let us follow better things.
|
| In saintly word and perfect grammar,
|
| to Academia’s lofty space.
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| The trivium, quadrivium, all baser
|
| thoughts now to efface.
|
| O Domine, O Magister — we aspiring angels sing
|
| with one tongue, forever young,
|
| let us follow better things.
|
| Cruel Bunter-bashing, cane-a-thrashing,
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| lines, detention, soon forgot.
|
| O dark ploy! |
| This grammar school boy
|
| has paid the price and bought the lot.
|
| In the quiet hours of life’s twilight,
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| old school ties and photographs,
|
| I call to mind the sore behind, the
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| tears, the last and longest laughs.
|
| Empty desks and inkwells, darkened
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| chapels, cobweb corridors silent now.
|
| Ghostly purple robes and dusty trencher,
|
| what could be holier than thou?
|
| O Domine, O Magister — we aspiring angels sing
|
| with one tongue, forever young,
|
| let us follow better things.
|
| Meliora sequamur: may we follow better things. |