"The Readin' O' the Marks"

(To the tune—vaguely—of "Phil the Fluter's Ball.)

A Disgusted student has suggested that the University of New Zealand should embellish our result cards with the rubber stamped fairies, bunny rabbits, flowers and similar incitements to good work beloved of primary school teachers.

Oh say me bhoys and have ye heard, of the Senate's latest larks?
They're forbidding the examiners from tellin' you your marks.
They're going' to give us A's and B's and C's and D's and E's
To stop that wobbly feelin' around about our knees.

Then come bhoys, applaud bhoys, let's tell them what we like
Clowns and coloured butterflies and fairies on a spike,
Little bunny rabbits and old decrepit sharks,
To stop us feelin' wobberly when readin' out our marks.

You'll remember all the carnage in the years that now are past
There was murder foul and bloody, and the students looked aghast
There was snobbery and jobbery and class distinction too,
When someone else got 51 and you got 52.

Then come bhoys applaud bhoys and let us ask for more
Elfs and gnomes and elephants, and leprechauns galore,
Stamps for those that pass and stamps for them that failed,
With A's and B's and C's and D's, all comin' through the mail.

You'll remember Willie Mulligan who fainted on the spot.
There was silly Billy Bunter, who up himself and shot.
They're buried in the cemetery, they're cited on the plaques.
They couldn't stand the tension at the readin' o' the marks.

If you've 95 in Maths, quoth Dr. Hulme so spry,
It needn't be as good as twenty less in botaneye
And that's grave injustice, what a social stigma's there,
You'll be frowned upon for life by the upper hundredaires.

Then come bhoys, applaud bhoys, and let us ask for more,
Exams are so much worry, such a bloody mental war,
Why should we be anguished and sit exams at all
Let's all be accredited, come the end of every fall.

We're such tender little creatures, we're such delicate little sprites
We have to be protected from such wild and hideous sights,
The Senate's oh so careful 'bout our mental neuro-sees,
But they're not so blasted tender when they're puttin' up the Fees.

There's a dirty little whisper that's a-growin' round the place,
It is rumoured, it is whispered, it's a cryin' out disgrace.
They say that when the Senate restrained us from our marks
Most of them thought they'd stopped us readin' out o' Marx.

Then come bhoys, applaud bhoys, let's have stamps of pretty things,
Ships and shoes and sealin' wax and cabbages and kings,
Nude girls and crude girls and mugs of beer an' all,
Then we can frame our final cards and hang them on the wall.

(Rosie D'Graded).