A Juvenalian Satire on the Proposals of Lord Browne

 Who is that tyrant standing abreast?

Of dullness, with hands in the chest,

Of righteous Minerva’s coffers,

Plund’ring our established offer,

Of, already, excessive fees,

Burdensome, brings us to our knees,

And students now devoid of cash,

No means to supplement, they crash,

Down from lofty Aegean Mount;

No money found in Trevi’s fount.

Economists their mind’s teasing,

Daren’t suggest quantitative easing;

He cuts Theology from pure truth,

They struggle to afford a roof.

Literature scholars must forgo,

Their books, sold, to provide some dough;

Chemists stripped of alchemic throne,

Seek fabled Philosopher’s stone,

To provide respite to their plight,

And so they end their futile fight.

And Politics are up in arms,

“Unfair mandate, sound the alarm!”

Biology, with clarity,

Debunk Browne’s claim of humanity

Whilst History look to the past

And know coalition won’t last

Mr. Clegg starts to look away

Heroic students, with dismay,

Unite under liberty’s sign,

And reminisce of cheaper times.

When students were eyed with respect,

(And Whitehall knew not to infect

The future of society

With undue impropriety)

A lone student matriculates

(As forceful Browne does inculcate

His ‘fair’ case for exorbitance

Or merely his inordinance)

Alone, his mortarboard sits high

Above graves of scholars who die,

Now strangled beneath hefty loans,

Too burdenous to hear their moans.

A sonnet composed on a deserted, shady, bench opposite the sunlit Aston Webb building in the shade of Old Joe on a warm autumnal afternoon. Inspired by a morning of tedious English lectures on sonnets and varying sonnet forms.

Birmingham, the name itself inspires object

Feelings of tenderness and joy, aided

And commanded by beautiful prospect

The Midlands’ own Eden, never jaded.

Alone it stands, amongst vernal trees,

Piercing sunlight from academic climbs,

Singing clockwork rhythm and symphonies

Counting down, eternal, studious times

The bricks stained sanguine with the hue of age,

Guardians and remnants of bygone days

Have sheltered many, the wise and the sage

Steadfast and enduring my droning lays

So like Aston Webb’s heaven piercing dome

Shall we climb atop education’s throne?

An Ode to Freshers A.D. MMX

(Given out at the BEDSOC stand during societies fair)

You wander in like an eager child, numb,

Fearful of many yet embracing some,

Wedging your door open as you’ve been told,

By many past students, their knowledge sold.

Flat-mates start to trickle through, in their droves,

Wielding ‘Smart Price’ pots, pans and bags of clothes;

Affixing posters to any crevice known,

Warding off mothers, who inclined to moan

About ceiling mould and when’s best to phone,

Linger mournfully and with floods of tears,

Inform that you are the result of their years,

To the delight and pity of your peers

Old Joe strikes noon on this portentous day,

The gown is donned and home-life cast away,

Old relics fade past in a hazed mire

All styles outcast for new ‘rah’ attire

You stand, enveloped, in a gilet

As sanctimonious students all say:

‘That the lash is what sustains us scholars’

Until we’ve spent our remaining dollar

On exorbitant broom-cupboards and food

Stationary, course-books and room posters lewd

Yet not all is lost!  As all that you’ve spent

Falls to our needy hands from Government!

Rejoice, the day is here, the loan has come!

Pray the freshers can now fund their wild fun!

The plastic is swiped, House-Vodka is bought

The room starts to swim, you’re devoid of thought

So you’re skanking and you don’t know what to,

And someone is clinging onto the loo.

Hugging as though it were an illusion,

Then out shoots some vile noxious extrusion.

But t’is norm, expected, on fresher’s week,

When alcohol preys and gluts on the weak,

So be warned of this temptress and take heed,

When you’re shotting Jäger at wanton speed,

It can only end one way, yet I can’t tell,

So just down it fresher and give us Hell!