Christian Mayne

Poetry

“My Alma Martyr (sic)” by Philip Mayne

No hallowed halls, no leafy ways No cloistered strolls no verdant fields Just concrete paths and freezing rain With a long walk there, then back again And, late each day, I’d get the cane From teachers freshly back from slaying The men who’d just laid down their guns And sour old hags who’d lost their sons No valid teaching was the rule Instead to keep us well subdued A sacred doctrine merged with sums Enforced our righteous servitude No witty, bright and in touch tutors Who’d bit off ...