There was a young man from the Bronx,
Loved drawing and redrawing ankhs.
When they asked for specifics, he spoke hieroglyphics,
That vexing young man from the Bronx.
There was a young girl from Virginia
—I hesitate now to continue—
No matter in bed, she would lecture you dead
On the Dharma without and within ya.
There was an old priest from the Point,
Who had to sit down to anoint.
His ankle was sore, ’cuz an ankylosaur
Irrepressibly gnawed at the joint.
There was a young man from St James,
Who consigned all his work to the flames.
When asked why he did it, he sadly admitted
It’s one of his dumb little games.
There was an old man from Madrid,
Whose poetry went off the grid.
He longed to recite, and yet somehow in spite
Of that sumptuous fact, never did.