Written lovingly and scathingly about my Masterpieces of World Lit class. Even the air is pompous.
Wisdom, dear class, is not to be found
In your mass of notes, transcripted furiously
From the mouth of the horse with little hair and glasses
You, with your bragging rights metered by credits
Swinging the banner of "Honors" above your overlarge heads
Philosophers in your own minds
You are those who I feared from the start
You are puddles of corruption pooled at my feet
Here is the extent of my disturbing your shining surfaces--
You sophists, you substance of those you deplore
Lifting Plato aloft in your processions of thought
Skimming past his description of scoring points in discussion
I tell you, in that game, you are certainly winning
Debate and discuss the past as you please
But do not discount the value of your years
You have not so many, so please refrain
From posturing as thought you are every one prodigies
I assure you, in the grand scheme
You are not, not yet
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