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You can do many things with ten pounds.
I bought a ride on the Cam on a punt. We slid over the streams of dead boys, With their worries their wars and their woes, And their almost perfect literary dreams. And we spoke of old verses and stone. And I saw what Wren had wrought and it’s, Quite an achievement for a non architect, It’ easy to see that there’s oodles of Room to make love in a punt, And the backs tell their stories enough. Of the Cambridge of ties, And big money to burn. And a bridge that may sigh with The burden of history and the weight of Bright boys and their scheming Papas. We slid over the streams of dead boys, At the backs, in the Cam of the morning With bridges above us cracking and bending And surely sinking into the Cam, smelling Of mires, cut grass and stinking wet stone. Bridges which wouldn’t carry, men Who would marry; for war’s playing fields Called them once more from the shires. |