Whose waistcoats made melodious the High,
All the jeunesse dorée
That shed the glamour of an elder day?
Can this be Oxford? And is that my college
That vomits khaki through its sacred gate?
Are those the schools where once I aired my knowledge
Where nurses pass and ambulances wait?
Ah! sick ones, pale of face,
I too have suffered tortures in that place!
In Tom his quad the Bloods no longer flourish;