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

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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

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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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U A L l 9 3 And then there's Dengle, Dutch and dour, Whose brow is not unhandsome. Yet when he woos the lyric muse She flies right out the transom. Close by sits Rubie, Kid McGee, Whose blush disturbs the censors. He inks the floors and breaks the doors But balks at painting fences.. And that's not all. Full twenty more Use words like octahedral. They're only few of many who Do murder in Cathedral. No matter what the subject be ln essay, verse or drama, lt write they will, they aim to kill Or wound you with a comma. Poor Thomas More ot saintly name Was truly bold and brave, But still he moans and sadly groans While turning in his grave. Ah, where the cause? Oh, Whose the crime? Where shall we lay the blame? The world would gasp with throaty rasp Were we to name that name. lt isn't Smith, it isn't Tones. lt isn't Pat O'Looney. lust bend your ear and you shall hear 'Twas -- -- -llll My work is done, a goodly deed, And now l am at peace. Sir Thomas More can now endure, His soul will gain surcease. My rhythm's gone from bad to verse, My rhyme is rather wowzy. But think of those who hold the nose Because their pomes are . . . frowzy. l2l