I've a ton of writing from 67 to Gaenor, 90 something, going through it I find most of it turgid, self obsessed rubbish but maybe it will find a place in an autobiography chapter. Next is another ditty, about the D.A.B.Sci. Course. Written in one go, no revision, it shows that I am most fluent when writing doggerel.
DABS, horses for courses or, on the road to Burleigh House.
There's a little group of students, just south of Archway Tube,
That are meeting every Tuesday night at six,
Some are come for pleasure and some are come for pain,
And some have come along for just the kicks.
Now noone knows what happens, least of all the bloody staff,
Who murmur 'self directed' in a jam,
But if you hang about for long enough you're bound to have a laugh
And if you're lucky you might find out who you am.
We've T-Grouped we've Encountered even dabbled in Gestalt,
We've Counseled and declared ourselves all sane,
And if ever it gets sticky we've all learnt a little tricky
And thats to give old Oedipus the blame.
We've thrown ourselves off tables, it's a trust thing so I'm told,
And we've proved our cool by massage in the nude.
We're abolishing conventions but there's one thing I should mention,
That the women gang together when it gets a little bit male chauvinist piggy.
We've Bio-energeticed, Psycho-dramaed and done Om,
Now I'll tell you whats the most exciting thing,
At residential weekends we really get it on,
We sit around for hours and we sing.
We talk a lot in circles round and round and round and round,
Round and round and round and round and round and round.
There's a growing band of people come together with a need,