“Disdain for Undergrad Philosophy”

It’s three o’clock, and I’m no philosophe.

I wear a scarf—I drink a cappuccino—

I like the shoes I’m wearing, beautiful!

But—

I wonder if my image isn’t hip—

Have I missed the mark on vintage cool?

All else is naught, this question in supreme—

What’s this? I seem the college philosophe!
 

For who can ponder Plato, think of Tocqueville,

Mull over Machiavelli, when one looks dull?
 

“I Loved My Lukewarm, Mild Slop”

Today I ate some lukewarm, mild slop—

Some lonely, rollÈd oats in wat’ry bed,

The likes of which Raskolnikov would eat,

Exiled from the nice St. Petersburg

To the somewhat drear Siberia.

Of course, I don’t have blackened, moldy bread—

I never have contracted dread consumption—

Nor am I prone to fits of epilepsy.

And yet I feel in fellowship with him,

My famous hero, that Raskolnikov.

For that I loved my lukewarm, mild slop.
 

“Am I Poor and Destitute?”

I’m really quite hungry and yet,

I jolly can’t pay for the rent.

I look at the toast,

I see it true boast:

It’s only my mind that won’t let.