Tea at St. John’s was laughter
and scoffing scones
buttered with cynicism
and skeptic jam—
cryptic jokes and diatribes
interlaced with crumpets and tea.

Incisive iconoclast.
Comparing conspiracies.
The history myth—
what greatness is—
and what it’s cracked up to be—
more tea?

Droll facetious fun.
Dry mocking humour.
Irreverent wit,
where nobody was spared—
and everyone was
cut down to size.

Satire dripped from every crumpet pore
and rivulets of liquid butter
lampooned the plate—
would you like more?
You are not a Cantabrigian bore.