Ivory Tower

The ivory towers
Are feathered bowers
Where pompous asses sit.

With nose held high
They scan the sky
To convince us of their wit.

But what they learn
‘tis best to burn
For good rare comes of it.

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

When the lucres gone
They fair 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.

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