At the Royal College, which upsprang
at the turn of yestercentury’s clang,
we teach the girls fishwifery,
we lead them from the periphery
in a glorious petty niggling gang.
We teach no baking of meringue.
Young ladies learn the harsh harangue
of men who argue differently
at the Royal College.
By year two they can sink a fang
right through a man who doesn’t hang
his shirts up, in a symphony
of wails, a fishwife infantry
that marches forwards, crash boom bang,
at the Royal College.
