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Jonathan Bligh, Jonathan Bligh
passing exams without seeming to try,
Head of the School and games-player supreme,
the icing on top of the cream of the cream.
A crutch for the weak and a check to the strong,
protector of those who seemed not to belong,
the apple of many a father's green eye
whose sperm had produced less spectacular fry.
Crafted, it seemed, by some Heavenly whim,
the sun in the sky shone more brightly on him
the New Improved Version of Mankind's design,
enough to make Mankind's designer resign –
and God-like enough to be rumoured by some
to have gold thread for hair and no hole in his bum.
  Dead! But before the Crem closes the curtain
  we're lifting his coffin lid just to make certain.