While the Buttress of the period
Bowled me his peculiar twisters:
Sung, "We won't go home till morning";
Striven to part my backhair straight;
Drunk (not lavishly) of Miller's
Old dry wines at 78/:—
When within my veins the blood ran,
And the curls were on my brow,
I did, oh ye undergraduates,
Much as ye are doing now.