The ivory towers
Are feathered bowers
Where pompous asses sit.

With nose held high
They scan the sky
Convincing of their wit.

But what they’ve learned
Should best be burned
For good rare comes of it.

It’s to the man
With tinkers’ hands
That great ideas are knit.

When the lucres gone
They soon move on
And no one cares a whit.

So be aware
Where air gets rare
The act is but a skit.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.