Bill (For Professor Hayes)

Bill sits writing in his office

For days, and even weeks.

You'd notice, if you sat with Bill,

He writes louder than he speaks.

To write one book is wonderful,

To write two books is splendid.

Bill begins to write his next

Before his last has ended.

But Bills across all history

Have always been prolific:

Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Thackeray

Were copious and terrific.

So Bill keeps writing everyday

And I suppose he always will

Until the world runs out of ink

Or the world runs out of Bill.

Dr. Ziegler (A Lucasorical Parkathos)

Ziegler Parkathos.

The commendation of Dr. Ziegler must be said

Lucasorically.

Professor Ziegler

Emerged from the energy of elementary

school to educate

Exhausted eggheads.

Tired teenagers tipping towards their tables in a trance

Of total torpor.

First Year Seminar

Summons sweet sleep swifter than a strong sedative or

Some soft satin sheets.

He must play Pan's pipes

To we freshmen shepherds while we count our sheep and drink

Warm milk with Hypnos.

But Dr. Ziegler

Remains bright and chipper despite his lugubrious

And sleepy students.

For what he teaches

Is the most mundane of classes ever to have been

Conceived by a school.

When Rip Van Winkle

Stumbled into a cave, most likely he walked in on

First Year Seminar.

But Paul Ziegler,

Like the Apostle in Acts 20, always heals those

Who are bored to death.

Poor, poor Eutychus

Was undoubtedly in Paul's First Year Seminar class

When he hit the hay.

But the fault is not

With Paul or with Paul Ziegler or even with Freshmen,

But with this crash course.

I suppose that this

Class was made to give students a chance to hit the books

With their poor foreheads.

Sir Timothy

The sky above Roberts Wesleyan

Was bleak and stony grey

Students wrapped in coats and scarves

Walked fast to class that day.

Teachers peered through their windows

They felt all was not quite well,

Some stopped teaching altogether

Tho' their students couldn't tell.

Suddenly, from high above

Came an awful growl

And a roar most frightening

From a beast so foul.

It was a wicked dragon

Procrastination was his name.

He swept in from some evil country

And set Garlock all aflame.

Students came out screaming

And ran to Mohnkern and Debarr,

But the Freshmen softly slept

In First Year Seminar.

The dragon gave another bellow

And let loose a conflagration

Garlock Commons was destroyed

By the evil Procrastination.

But in the church called Pearce

There stood a goodly knight.

Sir Timothy Dwyer was his name,

All bedecked in green samite.

And lo! Before Sir Timothy

Two spirits did he see!

The Lord and Lady Roberts

Ellen and B.T.!

"Sir Knight, our college needs thee

For a worm so deplorable,

Is now destroying all the campus

With fire horrible.

His roar is thunderous

And mighty is his power

Please save what we hold so dear

The beautiful new clock tower!"

"In Christ's name I shall!"

Cried the brave Sir Timothy,

Lord Roberts offered him his sword

Called Punctuality.

"For God and President Martin!"

The stout-hearted Dwyer said,

"I shall find this evil monster

And return with just his head!"

Meanwhile Procrastination

Was being sore assailed

By ten senior trumpet players

Where the oboeists had failed.

With a burst of flame they were gone

And all moaned, man to man:

"If trumpet players cannot kill it

Then nothing or no one can!"

But a sound of steel caught their ear

And through the smoke and fire

Strode the champion of Bible classes

The mighty Dr. Dwyer.

With a single leap he found the fiend

And with a flourish he

Stabbed Punctuality in its neck,

That brave Sir Timothy.

The students gave a wild cheer

And were filled with joy and laughter

And all concerned with the tale

Lived happily ever after.

And Sir Timothy returned to teach,

Still living in his prime,

To guard the campus against all those

Who don't turn in work on time.

Dr. Koehl

Dear Dr. Koehl, I am suspicious

Or at least, I'm superstitious

Please don't think me vile or vicious

Though this question seems malicious.

But I must ask, where are you from?

From where or whence have you come?

Ambiguous answers, you've given some,

But of clear ones, you've remained dumb.

So here is my hypothesis vile,

That you have travelled many a mile

From outer space, you've come to beguile

We humans, and live on earth for a while.

For I've noticed, I confess,

For a professor you always dress

Far too well. So I guess,

You're too stylish too profess.

You seem so very out of place,

You must be from outer space.

Behind that unnaturally friendly face

Smiles one of an alien race.

No wonder you are so eloquent!

And your statements need no supplement!

For other humans' time is spent

Not knowing what the other meant.

And, well it seems to  me,

You're too clear about philosophy.

For teachers are supposed to be

More vague when they earn a Ph.D.

You're an alien, I can tell,

You acted just a bit too well.

"Your wether's bell rings doleful knell,"

No more in secret shall you dwell!

Tho' your guise was of no avail,

I commend your efforts, Koehl.

Indeed, you did too much travail

That your excellence made you fail.

Here's some advice, if you want to fool

The next set of freshmen who'll

Take your class in this school:

Be more boring and less cool.

Father Ox

Father Ox is my professor,
Friend to student and confessor,
For this unusual beast
Is both a teacher and a priest.

An Orthod-ox first is he,
His power is in history,
And his faith; Dr. Caton
Fights the world, flesh, and Satan.

An ox-ymoron is he too,
A gentle giant, a lion who
Combs his mane and drinks his tea
And sits with lambs for company.

A parad-ox, last not least,
He is a husband and a priest.
Christ called some to watch his flocks
But just one to be Father Ox.

Caton seems to be a contradiction
Venerating fact and fiction.
But as Christ was both man and God,
So truth is more than story, odd.

Father Ox is my professor
Friend to student and confessor.
Fact or fiction, he knows not a thing,
Only truth, that God is King.