Firmly aloft amidst clouds of
bull and piffle,
The Stifle Prof serves up another
fifty-minute marinade
of drones and mumbles and head-deadening monobore.

The victims scratch at the ennui itch
with nods and doodles and listless drools,
and come out blinking, stumbling, trailing
pieces of spirit
here
chunks of sparkle
there
all neatly ripped and mangled and drowned
in the formaldehyde of boredom.

And the Stifle Prof,
whistling in his ignorance,
goes on to fame for his papers.


Harry W. Yeatts Jr.