The Pride of Young Men

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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