Father, Forgive Our Carpentry
The practice of law is a terminal bore
The theory is scarcely more cheery
And doing those things that are wicked or wrong
Can quite perk you up when life's dreary
But that's not the point of my song ...
The people who teach seem like tar on the beach
Spoiling each bird that they're oiling
And singing those songs that the oysters adore
'Til the saucepan is more-or-less boiling
But listen, I want to say more...
Those latterday tutors who work with computers
Can't grapple with aught but an Apple
And choosing a wife from the Beauties of Bath
Inevitably leads to the chapel
But let's try to stick to the path ...
While workers with books - why, they're nothing but crooks!
Slyly enlargin' each margin
And filling each line with their ems and their ens
As hyphens superfluous barge in
Now, how to go on? That depends...
|TG, Roland, P.
|22nd March 2001.