‘The Fat Man’s Mad Cantab Lab Rat’ presented a poem of epic proportions. We abridge.
The ghosts of old Trinmos float into the yard,
By toil and exhaustion they clearly are marred,
Observing the musings of Trinity present,
An atmosphere outlined by frightfulness crescent:
‘My functions and matrices—all overdue!
Whatever am I, yes, a Trinmo, to do?’
The mathematicians of days long gone by
Look on, sympathetically, giving a sigh.
‘Remember when no-one found out all this theory,
When we could do maths and not once were we weary?
These modern-day Trinmos all suffer so much.
We need to find methods of getting in touch’.
And so, Newton’s brilliance is put into action,
And Trinity ghosts all around join the faction.
The great minds of science embark on their tap-show Of choosing the worthiest Trinity mathmo.
The ghosts check all over to find who to pick:
A trip to Blue Boar’s an ephemeral flick.
New Court’s not got many, and Angel Court, fewer.
And Wolfson proves fruitless for every pursuer.
Suppose I should tell you about our dear hero,
For whom, every action converges to zero,
This Trinmo, my friends, is strikingly similar
To students you love and with whom you’re familiar.
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