The Scholar Fly*

At night, debating with his feet, he swears he wears six shoes.
Behind his compound specs, his eyes are pink from booze,
and unread footnotes tease him like a stoppered bottle.
His face has yellowed from too much Aristotle.

Afflicted by a hardening of the categories, his mind
dumps each new thought in ancient, rat-eared files.  He finds
the past so vivid now, he longs to buzz again on stale dung,
although he loathed that sinful life when he was young.

*(Yes, one of my own)