Cathedral College of the Immaculate Conception - Annual Yearbook (Brooklyn, NY)

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A N N U A L l 9 3 F5 0 0 Murder In Cathedral HE following poem was Written one hundred years ago, in l936. During the course of the succeeding century it has gradually attained a rare emi- nence as a national classic until at the present time it is on the prescribed list for all English courses in secondary schools, replacing old standbys such as the ANCIENT MARINER, AS YOU LIKE lT, and THE FACE ON THE BARROOM FLOOR. The poem is a lyrico-narrative gem, composed of a unique rhyme scheme of twenty-four quatrains Written in electrolic ammeter. lts remark- able lilting cadences, clever turn of thought and general all-round sweetness and light have made of it a popular as Well as a critically superlative mas- terpiece. The author, Dangerous Dan Dinkle, was a native of Brooklyn. He was born of pious parents named Deuteronomy and Desdemona Dinkle. His family traces its origin back to the Middle Ages, where We read ot a Didymus Dinkle who carried a vase in the War of the Roses. More recently the family fortune was created by Grandfather Doremus, who made his boodle in submersible doughnuts. An uncle, Doodad, was the inventor of the famous Dinkle dunk, a sidearm, weaving and bobbing motion which conserves the coffee as Well as the doughnut. Daniel Was born in 1930 and died in l935, never having reached the age of reason. Therefore it is all the more remarkable that he should have left to us this notable testament of his genius. 'Jr wt' sl' You got me, Hal, Sir Thomas cried, I-le ups and comes a martyr. The deed is done, no bell is rung 4 To herald crimes of Garter. 'Twas fifteen hundred thirty-five, Four hundred years ago. He served his Sire, provoked his ire, 8 For that they laid him low. For men not dull to honor bright lt was an awful slaughter. No mortal mud has right o'er blood 12 To spill it just like Water. No kindly Word have We to spare For aught a King conspires, His friends demise he did devise, lfi Let's burn him till he's Wires! ll9

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CATI-IEDBAL COLLEGE Their carbuncular knees make one think they have bubonic plague. Really they dot' This was the best suggestion of the evening, but was finally voted down because the general staff believed that not only the Scotch Highlanders but every last one of us would surely be kilted on the morrow. Meanwhile I was squatting outside the dugout chasing a cootie and dreaming of fish and chips, bloaters and ale, and such like gastronomic de- lights, Suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, a mere Wraith of an idea shot through my soporific brain, l grabbed it as it flew by, hung on, wrestled five or ten minutes and finally pinned it to the mat. Lord love us, what a grand idea it seemed to bel Here was the very thing that would halt the German advance, save Paris, win the war for the Allies, make the world safe for democracy, and make Steve Monkhouse famous, all at one fell swoop. I boldly decided to carry it out. Carrying out my bold decision, I quietly raided the commissary, swiped everything in sight, and made off to a wee spot of woods in no man's land. Here with a hammer and saw which I had in my back pocket I set up twenty of thirty tables. On each table I laid out a magnificent spread of vittles, vita- mins and vin ordinaire, not to mention beer and pretzels and scads of skittles. Then I meticulously painted a half dozen large board signs, each of which read, 'Das ist ein Biergartenf A remarkably cheerful little spot it turned out to be. I acted as first customer as well as host, and by the time I rolled into my home trench I felt jolly well like a barrel that would like to loosen a hoop or two. Extraordinary, wot? Next day the Huns did attack, but the bally rotters started at dawn in- stead of nine o'clock as they had said. However, my scheme worked to per- fection. They were half way across when the bounders saw my ground-floor rathskeller. Now no true German can resist a lil' snack with something to wash it down. Believe it or not, they didn't reach our trenches till two in the morning of the following week. I-Iawl By that time Paris was saved, the war won for the Allies and the world made safe for democracy. Unfortunately, however, Steve Monkhouse was not on his way to fame. I was just busying myself on a scheme to shoot bottled beer at the enemy aviators instead of anti-aircraft shells, when my arrest was ordered by Major Coincidence. They court-martialed me for committing mayhem on the com- missary. No one seemed to realize that I was the man who saved Paris. Or maybe the ungrateful wretches didn't see any sense in saving Paris after all, At any rate, I was found guilty and shot at sunrise on a gloomy Sunday. I say, don't look so frightened. I really was shot, you know. Then to show, as an everlasting example, what happens to imaginative birds who dream of bloaters and ale, fish and chips, and such like gastronomic delights, they had me pickled and preserved in a glass tank which was trotted all over France and the British Isles. So, my friend, here you see me-a forlorn little chappie who won a war, now dead as a doornail. And by love, am I pickledl Hicl I ll8

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OOCATHEDRAL COLLEGE But in all truth we must confess, The man who murders bodies ls not the Worst, though thrice becurst, Of those who dwell in quoddies. Bethink you yet of this my friends Though hell is full of holes The deepest pit sure scarce is fit For those who murder souls. And Thomas More Whose bones are dust ls murdered o'er and o'er . By thoughtless chumps whose brains are bumps Who haunt Cathedrals door. Ten times a year and once a month They give themselves the berry. On topmost floor, third corridor, They mock the literary. As leader of this cutthroat loanol Eugene Molloy is sorry. Detractors rise Without surprise And beg him for a quarry. Be-lloc he cries, or Chesterton Or Let's belabor Pickwick. And off they go with a tallyhol Enough to make one sick quick. To Chief Molloy as helping hand loe Davids first assistant. Alas! Alackl His head doth crack, His mind is non-existentl Of skinny form and peaked mien, All slats and no breadbasketg His Wit too ripe and puns all tripe, His skull is like a gasket. O'Connor's next. Step up my lad, And take one on the chin. Please raise your voice, you're not a hearse. Wipe off that silly grinl lt much befits to liken you To Peter's church in Roma. Your top is fair with golden hair But what an empty domal 120