Ode to the Dying Professor

Pondering all those works of praise,

Sparkles trim wellkept displays,

hair now various shades of grey;

remains set in his seat.

Gulps from same old coffee mug (for almost a century’s quarter),

Then chokes a rather awkward ‘glug’;

Awareness that, on Persian rug, the artifact that he had dug –

‘d been crayoned by his daughter.

Volumes stretching ever-higher,

expansive as fine grains of sand;

Some to which we all aspire,

Others just a few’d admire,
Shaddowed by dark waves of fire –

Written in his privileged hand.

Wrapped in kitschy tartan robe,

Contemplating in the stealth,

Armed with precious pen as probe;

From Harvard, Cambridge, to La Trobe,

Reaching beyond the temporal lobe –

Thus gave he form to knowledgewealth.

Yes, politics shall sway berserk, and as money-hungry demons quirk,

Just let as pray this lifetime’s work –

No “holy” war consume!