I knew a fellow, a perfect ass—
the guy was in my college class.
He started smoking a pipe
as soon as he got to campus;
the Chicken Kiev in the dining
hall made him balloon up
like a Panama Grampus.
He’d talk the most pretentious crap,
you dearly wished he’d shut his trap.
I still remember much of his tripe,
like “I’m in the mood for a good epic poem.”
Oh really, you’d say as the women
oo-ed and ah-ed, as if he were a God;
the sensitive type—surely you know ‘em.
I saw him once after graduation–
the move downtown only changed his location.
He was smoking cherry tobacco that was quite ripe;
his roommate was going out to the record store.
“Pick up some Thelonious Monk,” he said as if it were
a staple of bohemian life, like milk or bread;
you have to agree, he was a self-impressed bore.
Still I doubt that he’s to blame, you see–
I’m sure he thought the same of me.
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