Saturday, March 21, 2009

The Courage of the Professor

They screamed in his ears, they screamed in his eyes
In their anger at the professor, they screamed out lies.

But the innocent professor didn’t flinch—what did he care?—
so he stood there and watched while they pulled out their hair.

Then, as they raced, shouting, after him, he boarded a train.
One said to the others: “Along this track is rough terrain.

We’ll wait till the professor’s asleep in the caboose
then as we go over the gorge we’ll let that car loose

and give it a big heave to the left or the right.”
They gathered around and cackled with delight.

Then there was the gorge. The schemer cried, “Quick, to the back;
our last glimpse of the professor will be as he falls off the track!”

They passed through a car where it seemed to be night.
One fumbled about and found a large candle for a light,

but when he saw what the long, red candle was, his face went white.
It didn’t have a wick, but a fuse. His teeth rattled; he took a bite.

The professor was sitting on the turfy side of the mountain, his intended destination.
The train was a pop can shaken up; then—there was no evidence of the decimation.

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