Well-a-day, there’s a junior called Price
Who really is awfully nice,
So gentle and sweet,
And so dainty of feet,
They remind us of tender white mice.
Now we turn to a squadron more deadly,
Where flowers a mortal called Pedley;
He isn’t quite balmy,
But the Salvation Army
Converted him into a medley.
A junior of amorous intent
Went to Prinny on exeat bent,
But the Prin said, “Forsooth,
“Thou art a rash youth,
“From my sight go!” – and go he went.
In this village of old bricks and mortar
Our lives grow perceptibly shorter,
Like the boiler we’re old,
And our evenings are cold,
But Juniors can still get in ‘hot water’.
Hesitation appears when we plan
To speak of some eminent man,
But when Ing passes by
We look up at the sky
In vain for his visage to scan.
There’s a flaxen-haired junior called Crapper
Who considers himself really dapper,
E’en though he don’t shave
He must learn to behave,
For we can be sterner than Pappa.
We agree that a bright fire is cosy,
And it makes one delightfully dozy,
But when we emerge
To answer food’s urge
Complexions are really not rosy.
8. 4. 1928