(with apologies to Sylvia Plath...)
The student is perfected.
Thesis wears a smirk of slight knowledge,
The illusion of a structuralist method
Flows in the bull of her slogans,
Lines seem to be saying:
We have gone nowhere, this says nothing.
Each dry theme inert, a gray worm,
One for each little
Standard idea, now hackneyed.
She has spouted
Them out onto the paper, as droppings
From a brain splat when the pasture
Dries out and sewage seeps
From the shallow well of the starved psyche.
The prof. has nothing to be sad about,
Reading at his desk of stone.
He is used to this sort of thing.
His jowls jiggle and crack.