My Mea Culpa

.....Recently, I was admonished by a British cousin who earns a living by writing poetry for people who want to give a poem to somebody for a birthday gift; a choice which saves them a shilling or two from having to get something real from Harrod's. Ms. Grimsley told me to stop publishing "kudos" from former students. Let me remind Ms. Grimsley that I have also published "unkudos" from former students. Here's one from a former student in a penitentiary:

.....“Dr. Ross” – "I hesitate to use the word “Dear” thou bird-brained, clack-pot, codpiece, because you are anything but dear to me. Ever since I was in your class in 1905 I can’t get what you taught me out of my head, and it has caused me much grief , poverty, and homelessness. I have been unable to get a job because of you ever since my graduation in 1908. I tried to land one with General Motors, and when they asked me what I could do, and how I could be an asset to them in selling cars, I said, cheerfully, 'Well, I can answer the phone after your operator says, ‘If you speak Beowulf, press 3' and then I can say, ‘Hwaet we Gar-Dena, in gear-dagum, theode-cyninga’. Then, sir, from there I can tell them all about your cars, delighting them with an introduction to the Malibu in middle English, 'Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote, the droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote'. I think, sir, it’s only fair to give credit for this linguistic asset to my old teacher, “Doc” Ross. .....At that point, thou reeky boil-brained miscreant, Ross, I was told, in no uncertain terms, and ironically, in modern English, that I was an “ass”, not an “asset” and to vacate the premises as rapidly as humanly possible. Which I fearfully and tearfully did. And here it is 2010, and I didn’t even have the wherewithal to attend my class’s 100th Reunion last year when I was invited by the other two who went. So, each day I stand at the entrance to a nursing home greeting visitors with a piece of cardboard whereon I have written 'By the Holy Rood, will work for food.' Then with the pittance of cash I receive, I rush to Barnes & Noble to buy a book of poetry which I can read in the library to people who throw coupons at me. Finally, at night, I curl up at the Florida Turnpike with a copy of the 'Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam'. So, eat a crocodile, Ross, thou addlepated craven dewberry."