Cruising on the first floor was just the start,
Ethics, Logic, Political Science;
Leviathan's faulty logic, at heart
A matter of the misanthropic part
Of a weighty soul in misalliance
With his wife's under/over done Jam tarts.
Then there was philosophic logic's fans,
Who cutting up Ludwig's misquotations
Into spears of pride, bullets of disdain,
Turned blanc into noir; yet feeling the pain,
Popped pills, when under the art of nations
They felt the weights balance shift in their pans.
Political Science, well that was grim,
I never took it; friends tell me straight
Though, it was a blinder, lust on a plate;
Misunderstandings, the cause of all hate,
Dark gender-benders, straight out the new Tate,
Tuning the piano with only one hand.
Literature caged in a concrete shell,
Boxed in compartments, with wrappings from hell,
Words locked in breasts severed from the larynx;
Motions of kindness sunk in the Cinque
Ports, communication, a broken bell,
Ambition, bitterness, no room for Del.
Up on the forth floor, what do we have there,
Russian, History, French, I don't really care.
Pining in libraries, for love of a girl,
Spontaneous hard on's, a priceless pearl;
Out of the windows, down the stair well, bare
Thoughts exude, breeding sensations that dare.
I know everybody may not agree
But don't you think I deserved my degree?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem