The Boar's Head Gaudy Poem by Richard George

The college only owns one
Aristotle, pre the Caxtonet,
and you've left it behind in lieu in a bawdy house.
Shades of the pillory close, and your neck prickles.

In an ague of desperation
you dream your trail dies deep in the Nemean monster.
There are no lions. But wild boar...
All night you rehearse the bosk where you strayed

lost in thought; its charge; your knock-down
'This is Greek! '; its choke
transfixed by the first zoologist,
and the paragraph of his work you were rudely torn from.

The Provost is spellbound.
He decrees a feast to celebrate,
as a model for students, your fortitude and intelligence.
From this moment you're on guard, on guard, on guard.