A Ballad, In Broadside, on the Academics

Printed at Corn-hill in Boston, in Newe-England,

Oh! Academics ha' always got somethin' to say,
Words to complain, prestige to obtain;
 Whether you're Tranny or Lonely or Doggie or Gay,
 Academics say you must have somethin' to say!

 They do not love movies,  Or girls' starry looks;
 They love conf'r'ences so gloomy, and old Latin books:
  Above all else they do declare, they love Themselves
  And the praise of their Ceaseless and Useless Cares.

 Oh! Academics ha' always got somethin' to say,
 Words of critique, and critics so pique'd,
  They say you ought to go in the grave lay:
  But e'en there the Academics would ha' something to say!

 So Scholars, and Poets, and Orators to Come,
 Beware what yon Academicians Say:
 But heed well The People, work-worn and spare,
 When homeward from work, they say a few words: "bye-bye", "so long" -- and "take care!"

  But in the Still of the Night,
  When the night-birds take flight,
  And the people in their warm soft beds lie:
  Then, e'en then, the Academics will have Something to Say!

Remembrance Day

 I travelled once to the Commonwealth graves at Passchendaele, outside Ypres, in Belgium. It is a low, sad, green landscape. The weight of the ghosts is palpable. The farmers still plough up shells each day; some are unexploded cans of mustard gas. Some are duds. When you go to the graveyards, you find betimes a monument with an inscription marked at the bequest of the family of the late lad. This is one I saw, and never shall forget, until the end of my days:

        Son, 
   I Loved Thee So Deeply
   My Sorrow Shall Never Be Healed.
     Mother.

 War is sick and stupid, and I'm ashamed of myself for finding it interesting.