When I get my college’s alumni magazine each month, the first thing I turn to is the class notes in the back. First I read the news from my classmates from ’97, then check out the ’96s and ’98s to see who I might recognize. But then I flip back to the front and read the news from the oldest classes, from the early days of the century. This is this month’s entry from the “corresponding secretary” of the class of 1926 (which would put him at about age 97):
“Oranges and lemons / Say the bells of St. Clements. / You owe me five farthings, / Say the bells of St. Martins. When will you pay me? / Say the bells of old Bailey. / Which I get rich, / Say the bells of Shoreditch.”
Thus the morning bells of jolly old London ring out each day to ye somnolent Brits that’s time to arise, dress, breakfast, seize derby hats, and hie away for another workaday. But hey! From all ye Christendom world ring gladdest tydings to all of Yuletide joys and festivities.
Belatedly we announce your Scribe’s successful venture into ye decorative gourd derby and his deepest pleasure with’s first returns: a fat man of solid green; an extra large donut sans central hole; a slim Jim, half-yellow and half-green; and to crown all, two beauteous sisters, Chastity and Serenity, each sporting gracious yellow halves above solid green bottoms below, with a fine green ring surrounding Serenity’s graceful neck.
And so your Scribe joins in wishing good cheer and long life to all ye stout members of our good Club 90, all of whom we cherish and covet like a miser-turned-gambler his dwindling cache of gold as it slowly passes away.
I have no idea how to react to that — the third graf reads like a senior citizen’s LSD trip. But that imagery! Gorgeous stuff.