Old man Oxford, plump
and merry in shape
and glee, a professor
of all things written
and green, his
friends, wooden and tall,
endowed him a pipe
of oaken skin, gilded
in bark and mirth, and
with this gift, he
smoked their leaves
and painted tales
of fantastical dreams, each
puff and ember smithed
his words, carrying his
mind into the cloud-stained
skies, where they danced
in the golden gleams, with
flocks of eagles, and
the blowing westerlies.