As I lay asleep in Jericho
There came a voice I did not know,
Which with great power began to show -
Dominus illuminatio,
Mea - the City of Dreaming Spires
To be a nest of bloody liars!
I met Falsehood in my dream.
He had a face like Academe.
Very smooth he looked, yet grim.
Seven liars followed him.
All were fat - and well they might
Be in admirable plight,
For one by one, and two by two,
He tossed them human hearts to chew -
Careers and reputations too -
Which from his wide black cloak he drew.
Next came Fraud in academical dress -
Looking like the University Press.
His big words, for he spoke well,
Turned to poison as they fell
And sank beneath the earth to hell.
And the trusting students who
Read those volumes through and through,
Thinking every word a gem,
Had their brains destroyed by them.
Armed with the Bible (still sells well)
And the Dictionary (and does that sell!)
Like a Delegate, Hypocrisy
On a crocodile rode by,
Her eyes turned upwards to the sky,
Her feet in shit from some pig-sty,
And at her breast the folded lie.
And many more Destroyers played
In this ghastly masquerade,
All disguised in quaint attire:
Professors, editors, lawyers, liars.
Last came Academic Merit,
A most untrustworthy spirit.
He was pale, even to the lips,
Like Death in the Apocalypse.
And He wore a kingly crown
(Or mortar board) and Master's gown.
On His brow this mark I saw:
"I AM GOD AND KING AND LAW!"
With a pace stately - and fast -
Over the whole world He passed,
Trampling in a mire of jelly
All who've never heard of Shelley,
How silly Oxford sent him down
For telling the truth (and played the clown
Refusing to honour Margaret T -
An act of gross discourtesy,
Whatever you may think of what
She did or tried to, or did not.)
It's sadly true that Academe
Is stupider than He would seem,
Insulting Radical and Tory! -
But now I must pick up my story.
For then a Congregation followed
(What He fed them, they straight swallowed),
Wearing each a mortar board,
In the service of their Lord.
And with spurious triumph these
Rode through Reason, proud to please,
Drunk with specious self-esteem,
Held in thrall by Academe
Like undead zombies, in my dream.
From land to land, campus and city,
Passed that Pageant - huge, not pretty!
Tearing up contracts as if in sport,
Until they came to Chancery Court.
And each person, panic-stricken,
Felt his heart with terror quicken
Hearing the shrill and shocking scream
Of the Triumph of Academe.
For with pomp to meet Him, look!
Clothed in arms of Crowns and Book,
The hired liars came to sing,
"Thou art God and Law and King."
"We have waited, wigged and fox-furred,
For thy mighty coming, Oxford!
Our purses empty, pleadings cold,
Give us lawsuits, judgements, gold.
Lawyers and liars, a motley crowd,
To the earth their pale brows bowed,
Like raddled harlots turning tricks,
Or junkies craving their next fix,
Pledged: "What thou wilt, we'll do - and more.
For thou art God, and thou art Law."
Then all cried with one accord,
"Thou art King and God and Lord.
Academe, to thee we bow;
Be thy name made holy now!"
And Academe, the Skeleton,
Bowed and grinned to everyone,
As well as if His education
Had cost ten million to the nation -
A serious underestimation!
For He knew the Palaces
Of the great were rightly His -
Westminster, Whitehall, Fourth Estate,
Treasury, Law, both Church and State.
So He sent His slaves before
To seize the Treasury and the Law,
And was proceeding with intent
To meet His servant Parliament.
When one fled past, a maniac writer,
With but one suit and not a tie to
Call his own, a curious Knight a-
Stride the steed of Truth and Right,
A bold Philosopher, Making Names
For things and thoughts. This David claims:
"My name is Hope. I seek what's fair."
(And yet he looked more like Despair.)
He cried aloud to all stood there:
"My father, Time, is weak and gray
With waiting for a better day
When publishers mean what they say
And scholarship will not betray
The Truth, and authors get fair play.
See how idiot-like he stands
Fumbling with his palsied hands!"
He has raised child after child
Johnson, Shelley, Oscar Wilde,
(With many other names I've filed)
And the dust of death is piled
Over every one but me.
But I will make these bastards see
They must be fair to authors who,
Once contracted, duly do
What is required - or I perish too!"
Then he laid his case before
The majesty of Chancery law,
Expecting with a patient eye
Falsehood, Fraud, Hypocrisy -
With all their bad deceitful team -
To stage the Triumph of Academe.
When between him and his foes
A mist, a light, an image rose -
Small at first, and weak and frail
Like the vapour of a vale,
Or a jet-plane's vapour trail.
It grew - a Shape arrayed in Splendour,
No longer blind, of female gender,
Justice, who punishes the offender,
Provides a Remedy for those maltreated,
Decides who wins, who is defeated,
And slowly ponders right and wrong.
(And now I soon shall end my song,
For fear you find it much too long!)
Amidst that prostrate multitude,
Incredulous of what they viewed,
Justice, that maiden most serene,
Was walking with a quiet mien.
And Academe, that ghastly figure
Lay dead, exhausted of life's vigour.
The verdict, with its careful rigour,
Had sunk the University Press,
Responsible for all this mess,
And dealt a blow for lonely writers
Against the publishers, powerful blighters.
(A vict'ry which should most delight us!)
And as I move towards my close
I cannot help but echo those
Words of joy and fear adorning
The end of Shelley's dreadful warning
He called The Mask of Anarchy,
Defending Justice, Liberty,
Science, Poetry, Wisdom, Love,
And Peace - these are not gifts from above,
But the patient fruits of human endeavour,
By all of us, not just the clever.
"People of England, heirs of Glory,
Heroes of unwritten story,
Nurslings of one mighty Mother,
Hopes of her, and one another -
Let the laws of your own land,
Good or ill, between you stand
Hand to hand, and foot to foot,
Arbiters of the dispute.
The old laws of England - they
Whose rev'rend heads with age are gray,
Children of a wiser day;
And whose solemn voice must be
Thine own echo - Liberty!
Rise like lions after slumber
In unvanquishable numbers -
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fall'n on you -
Ye are many - they are few."
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