This is the crap product of sitting through the first 4 hour evening class of the quarter… where I learn about nothing more than the syllabus… and listen to the professor spout out argumentative gobble-di-gook:
Sitting in Philosophy
at half past eight o’ clock,
The professor’s a dichotomy
of a Finnish doc and cock.
He struts and clucks and flaps his arms
about arguments of incredulity-
O, the pedantry, the deductive absurdity,
this King of Meta-Normativity.
Yeah, he’s Finnish. He’s got the Swedish Chef twang going on. (Yes, that was political incorrectness. No, I do not give a damn.)
The first in a series of poems that I write in the margins of my notebook or on class handouts that I care little for. Enjoy.
