(Moore meets Capra meets Seuss meets Dickens meets Bull.  Drunken brawl ensues.)

Plagiarised influences on this poem should hopefully be reasonably apparent both from its content and the title.  However, bearing in mind that it was mostly written in December 2004, a knowledge of the identities and noms-de-plume of the 2003-2004 Bull editors may be of use.  Hence, from left to right, we have:


 
Buttons Fitzwaistcoat, The Massey Boar, The Human Enigma and Tigger, the Angel of Doom.

Now read on...

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the college
Bull editors found themselves vexed by the knowledge
That plans for a punctual Christmas edition
Looked highly unlikely to come to fruition

So they'd type and they'd type and they'd TYPE TYPE TYPE TYPE
And they'd frequently pause in their typing to gripe
That the deadlines they struggled to meet were too tough
And that nothing they'd written was funny enough
And the typing and griping went on through the night
But it seemed that the issue might turn out all right
When one of the editors sprang from his keys
With a force that belied his pale atrophied knees
And he shouted out "Colleagues! Make haste over here
For I've just had a wonderful, AWFUL idea!"

"We type and we gripe and we shame and we blame
And complain about writing, but write all the same
Why not give it all up? - grab our coats from the hooks
And abandon the Bull and go out and read books?
Or play Settlers, check email or watch DVDs?
Don't you feel that your lives lack such comforts as these
When every spare moment appears to be full
With the cruel obligation to write for the Bull?"

"We should leave it right now! Run at once for the door!
And swear that we'll never write Bull any more
With the scurrilous content of which it consisted
Much better for it to have never existed!"

His colleagues stood up and together conferred
For they'd heard every word, and they'd liked what they heard
And when they'd conferred all as one they concurred
That to waste their time writing the Bull was absurd!
So they made for the door! - but at once in the room
It grew colder than ice and as dark as a tomb
And an ominous voice filled the room with a boom
Saying "COWER IN FEAR FOR THE ANGEL OF DOOM!"

And they saw stood before them a menacing figure
Its arms raised before it to make it look bigger
When asked for its name it replied with a snigger
"The Angel of Doom! - although some call me ... Tigger"

"Be very afraid! - for my tidings aren't glad
This wonderful, awful idea that you've had
Might appeal to delinquents as lazy as you
But make no mistake - it's the wrong thing to do"
"And it's not going to happen - we're not going to let it
The Ghosts of Bull Past will make sure you'd regret it
Three more will come visit and force you to see
How awful when Bull-less the college would be"

Then it faded away right before all their eyes
And at first the Bull Editors gasped in surprise
Then they shrugged and they laughed and they made for the door
Intending to leave just the same as before
(As most of them found themselves privately thinking
The vision stemmed from their habitual drinking)

But when the door opened, unbarred and unlocked
They saw that the hallway beyond had been blocked
By a vast tusked figure with eyes glowing red
It snarled and it charged and the editors fled
But it pinned them all down with its hooves on the floor
Then said "Stay and pay heed to the great Massey Boar!"

"Sit right where you are and I'll show you a vision
Of Massey devoid of all mocking derision
Where Fellows are courteous, kind and sincere
No sarcasm, satire or parody here
Where at Christmas their quotes are all joyful and festive
Not ripped out of context to make them suggestive
Their photos not placed on a website with care
In the hope that rude captioning soon will be there
Is this what you want? - for it's what would befall
A college where no Bull gets written at all."

And seeing the vision, the editors cried
Out in horror, and turned to the Boar, whom they tried
To persuade to avert the illusion they saw
But it turned round to leave, and it spoke from the door
"Try another escape, and I'll rip you to pieces
I'm guarding this door while I work on my thesis"

Then one editor said "If we stand on the bed
I expect we could leave through the window instead.
A firmly thrown object should make the glass splinter
It's not very thick, as we find out each winter"
And as soon as the editor's words had been spoken
Glass flew through the air as the window was broken
Yet not from a blow that her colleagues applied
But a ghost who had smashed his way through from outside

Who then rose to his feet, gave his glasses a wipe
Adjusted his clothing and lit up his pipe
Then extended a hand and said "How do you do?
I'm Buttons - that's 'Mr. Fitzwaistcoat' to you"
"Don't expect to escape when there's two ghosts to go
And I don't think you'll like the things I have to show
While Bull-deprived Fellows might seem a disaster
Just wait till you see what becomes of the Master"

"He strides through the quad with his head held up high
And Fellows fall silent to watch him go by
For each word that he utters compels them to gasp
At his wondrously deft intellectual grasp
With his gravitas envied, his wisdom revered
He never gets mocked, just respected and feared
And nobody laughs as he wanders downtown
With a million red stripes on the back of his gown
Instead they applaud when they see how he's dressed
With the order of Canada pinned to his chest
All polished and shiny and put on display
So people can see it from miles away..."
But the editors stopped him, all crying out "Wait!
How came we to such a deplorable state?
With that cruel and sardonic demeanour of theirs
Did the Bull not confound such imperious airs?
"It seems" said Fitzwaistcoat "you misunderstand
For this and all subsequent issues were canned
And the quieter voices of scorn went unheeded
This man never got the derision he needed!"
Then he strode from the room, and the editors saw
That the Massey Boar no longer guarded the door
So they ran for the quad, and the gate, and the street
But stepping outside, were confounded to meet
A motionless figure alone on the grass
Whose very demeanour forbade them to pass
Though the editors guessed that its neatly shaved head
Would stand still if it laughed, like a bowl full of lead
It just stood there all solemn and silent and static
It looked vaguely human, and quite enigmatic

With its gesture, at once there appeared on the wall
A film of the very worst vision of all
The master and fellows all gathered around
The High Table emitting a horrible sound
The editors trembled to find their ears ringing
With the hideous noise of the whole college singing
And they realised the loss of mean-spirited writing
Of articles scornful, parodic and biting
Of rudeness, and crudeness and false accusation
Of prying and lying and glib defamation
Could lead to the kind of insipid good cheer
That might make such a godawful scene happen here
And it's said as the final ghost faded away
That their egos at once grew three sizes that day
As the horrors before them allowed them to see
The true value of publishing libelously
So they vowed they'd return to their rooms and pursue
The grand effort to mock everybody they knew

Then the singing all ceased, but the ringing increased
And the editors saw as they looked to the east
That the rapidly lightening sky they observed
With the rings from the bell meant that breakfast was served.
The nightmare had passed, and the Bull had stood fast
And the issue was finished, albeit half-assed
By a somewhat refreshed team of editors, who
Then neglected the Bull till the next one was due.
And while some have enquired if the sound of the rings
Could imply that the Angel of Doom got her wings,
Bull writers are wry, and by them it's been said
That she didn't get wings, but she may have got fed.

 -Ben Fortescue