(Apologies to Robert Louis Stevenson)
I have a merry room-mate who lives in the Well with me,
And what goes on inside him is more than I can see.
He isn’t very like me, that’s the best that can be said;
And he’s always in his pallet when I crawl into my bed.
The funniest thing about him is the hour he likes to rise,
Not at all like normal students who cannot ope their eyes
Until the strident summons thrice has struck from warning bell,
When they shoot up like a rockets and descend the stairs pell-mell.
He hasn’t got a notion of the piano how to play,
And can only whistle loudly in a discordant sort of way.
He snores so close beside me like a trumpet in the night,
I sometimes think he must at length blow himself out quite.
One morning very early my room-mate he was up,
He washed himself and shaved him, then he took his little cup
And went to early breakfast, for School Practice was his fate,
While I, not so required, went back to sleep till ten to eight!
2. 11. 28