Tears of the Intellectuals
Tears of the intellectuals, bitter dew,
Moistening pages of ponderous books
Schmerz of the intellectuals, sad but true,
Bellyaching of the egghead schnooks,
Kvetching, self-loathing anchored deep
In the hearts of intellectuals albeit they know
The galaxies' secrets, and what life forms creep
In brackish saltwater, and how protozoa grow.
Oy, as knowledge expands, oft doth the pain
Of being an intellectual expand apace, because
There's never quite enough money to sustain
A half-decent lifestyle, and there never was.
Yet intellectuals will do what intellectuals do,
Are you an intellectual? Fuck me, I'm one too.
To a Statue
Queen Sennuyw of the Middle Kingdom's lore,
Your statue, 4000 years buried in the sand,
Now in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts forevermore;
In life you surely were graceful and serene,
Tall and proud, strolling around in the dunes,
Embodiment of all your rule had come to mean,
Worshipping Khonsu, goddess of the moon.
Now, even in stone, your eyes seem able to see
Far beyond the BMFA, off to where the Nile flows,
Where life and death were an engaging harmony,
Benign circularity, as the Nile's yearly flooding showed.
Sennuyw, enduring queen of the antique land,
Antipode of Ozymandias, carved by an unknown hand.
Santa Claus in Springtime
I know Santa Claus is in the chimney tonight
But I don't waken startled, or even surprised;
I've learned to accommodate an amorphous fright
That gets more and more morphous, then dies.
I'll have to croak too, of course, or as the Brits say,
Pop off, which is the message when a tooth falls out;
So as your various faculties are slipping away,
Remember the song, better not cry, better not pout,
Because Santa Claus has always been in town.
You didn't want to come here, my good man,
And now, though you want to stay around,
What you want is different from what you can.
Santa Claus knew you on the day you were born.
Best not to stress about it. But you've been warned.