O Worm, thou art sick,
Thy earthy tendrils long to prick
The burgeoning bud.
You may flourish in a flower,
A site of pleasure, sickly plucked.
That won’t wither her sweet power;
May Venus’ jaw snap shut thy luck.
That crimson bed you burrowed in,
Attacked by worms who came before,
Mocks mortal flesh and mortifies
Those tempted by such sensuous gore.

For Cherwell, maintaining editorial independence is vital. We are run entirely by and for students. To ensure independence, we receive no funding from the University and are reliant on obtaining other income, such as advertisements. Due to the current global situation, such sources are being limited significantly and we anticipate a tough time ahead – for us and fellow student journalists across the country.

So, if you can, please consider donating. We really appreciate any support you’re able to provide; it’ll all go towards helping with our running costs. Even if you can't support us monetarily, please consider sharing articles with friends, families, colleagues - it all helps!

Thank you!