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Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house 

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. 

Well apart from the Oxford students, still working for sure, 

the laptops still buzzing, books piled on the floor.

 

As the rest of the world is curled up in their beds, 

the students sit glumly, chewing work in their heads. 

When all of a sudden arises such a clatter, 

they spring to their windows to see what is the matter.

 

That Bullingdon club, or a drunken course mate,

who else writing essays is still up this late?

When what to their wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

  

With a little old driver, so lively and quick, 

They knew in a moment it must be Saint Nick

As their cynical world views are instantly spent,

They begin to consider how to write up the event.

 

The humanities students consider their position,

how to be politically correct yet challenge the opposition,

surely this man proves a patriarchal state,

and should be branded misogynist for femophobic hate.

  

The scientist sits and wonders if the man, 

could be quantified in numbers and figures; what a plan!

Indeed should his flagrant cheating of the laws of science,

challenge them or him to consider compliance?

 

Because something unexplainable is simply frightening, 

a world that doesn’t fit in our heads is like lightning, 

all the building blocks of our quavering existence,

come clattering down without a moment’s resistance.

 

And at such a conclusion, they all traipse to the quad,

to tell this funny man of their work; their true god,

‘you’re a liar’, they go further, ‘you destroyed inspiration,

to dare cause a break from my essay; fornication!

 

Away with you sir and your Christmassy cheer,

our lives are work-centric above all this year,

with finals, collections and prelims to prepare for,

you in your silly red sleigh makes one’s brain sore.’

 

The man stares at the group and leaves with a sigh,

looks up at the clouds and shoots into the sky: 

‘With their plans and ambitions, they really are thick,

what absolute wallies’, pondered Saint Nick.

  

They were offered a gift that was genuinely free, 

and all the economists got was to laugh at me. 

They scoffed at love as if it were not meant, 

is there really any more stupid than an Oxford Student?

  

And at that, rejected by these miserable folk, 

he searched out the needy, the dying, the broke, 

and it was there the true brilliance of humanity shone;

it was clear that at Oxford, something was wrong.

 

But back to the lawn and the academic meeting, 

all trundled off to bed to work before sleeping…

 

And with that, the poor linguist gave up dreaming for good, 

and got back to her books like a true Germanist should.