by Alex Waygood

‘Twas in the early hours of Monday morn
That in the libr’y, one could plainly see
A boy: who, with hunch’d back and bended neck,
Didst type away on music theory.

The clock struck three, then four, then five!
The college soundly snored
– Yet still the lad did keenly strive
To understand that chord…

Yea, not for him, the sunlit hours of day,
The thrill of midnight being far too great.
The magick of that silent, dusky hour
Inspiring all of those who stay up late.

The clock struck three, then four, then five!
The quad now ghostly still
– Yet still the student soldiered on
Throughout the dusky chill…

Not till the sun had risen in the sky
Didst the scholar rise up to his feet
His weekly labours were at last now thru:
His ritualistic pilgrimage complete!