I stride to my desk in the mornings
To study absicht and donnée,But soon I take pause to consider
Herr Professeur has little to say.
Oh the gruff good sense of Old England.
Come evening I twirl my spaghetti
Or dabble a thin Tuscan wine,
But really I find it’s all rat food
Not hearty and struck from the chine.
Oh the ale and roast beef of Old England.
On Sundays I turn to my Maker
To acknowledge good fortune received,
But appalled at thought of the priest-hagged
I give thanks for what Cranmer achieved.
Oh the matins and psalms of Old England.
And sometimes I struggle with paroles
Or drang which a dichter has sung,
But they clog my exasperate vision
Like chaff which madmen have flung.
Oh the part-songs and tales of Old England.
Thank God for these green rocky islands,
For the wolds and the homesteads and lanes,
Though now swarming with Europe’s children
Like a locust army of Cains.
Oh the fair fields and towns of Old England.
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Note: "Herr Professeur" is deliberate.
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© January 2016
