The Dead Poets Society Reunion
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This scribbler’s band, you understand meet yearly on Christmas Eve
A gathering of poets and would you know it, more talent it’s hard to perceive
At that den of sin a notorious inn called The Place of the Rabid Goat
Bards galore, over twenty or more and others of fame and of note
Happy and warm, sheltered from the storm which outside was a’raging
A joyful thong for the beer was strong and the girls were quite engaging


Chairman Keats got to his feet to quieten the crowd with his gavel
“Order Please, you gents and ladies; SHUT UP you unruly rabble”
Downing a gin, cried “Let the evening begin, Mr Kipling take the stand if you please’
Stoned out of his mind it was rather unkind to be hoisted onto his knees
Grey haired old Kips took a couple of sips “Right” he said with a lecherous grin
”Yesterday on the bed where Mandy lay, I was a better man than you Gunga Din’


‘Now I don’t know his name or how hell he came all the way from Mississippi
But now he’s here, give a big cheer, hurry up mate and make it slippy’
‘I’ll tell you a tale where men are all men and the women are quite hairy too
On the wide open plains where seldom it rains, it’s deficient of Diners, and Loo’s
McGraw’s the name and it’s held with acclaim in the Land Where the Buffalo Roam
There ain’t no canteens all I eat is canned beans that’s why I can never go home


Good things must end and it’s a touch cruel to send the company out in the snow
But Burns and Shelley were feeling quite merry and so were Will Shaky and Poe
Lord Byron felt fruity and considered it his duty to escort Sylvie Plath. cross the floor
Discovered next day to the landlords’ dismay was a very rude verse on the door
So if on that night you’ve a poem to recite, go down to the Goat and insist
Among all your peers there’s no worries or fears cos their all most certainly er— inebriated