I just got a letter from the University president. He quoted a poem by U. A. Fanthorpe from Oxford University. Seemed worth passing along:

THE WICKED FAIRY AT THE MANGER
My gift for the child:

No wife, kids, home;
No money sense. Unemployable.
Friends, yes. But the wrong sort-
The workshy, women, wogs,
Petty infringers of the law, persons
With notifiable diseases,
Poll tax collectors, tarts;
The bottom rung.
His end?
I think we’ll make it
Public, prolonged, painful.

Right, said the baby. That was roughly
What we had in mind.