“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 ...