Upon entering the room, you simply said
in a manner of fact, “Yes it’s true. He’s dead.”
And proceeded to go on with that Friday’s class.That part where Medea serves up the last
of her children chopped up on a plate
for Jason, his ravishing appetite to sate.And unsuspectingly he does.
And we knew just how vile a meal that was
on this day when the classics were underminedby Dallas: A Tragedy for Modern Time.
Our time. And you took it away;
the right to succumb to grief kept it at bay.You venomous, vainglorious man.
You served up Medea at a moment when
butchered progeny was the last thing we needed.With a smirk you watched as we sat defeated.
Was some point proved? Did we pass our test?
I’ve wondered why we stayed bound to our desks.Too civilized I suppose, to stomp out of the room.
We should have sent you right to your doom;
trampled underfoot and dragged across campusas Achilles, passionate warrior that he was,
had done with the carcass of Hector.
And now each time at that vector,that November day crossing of another year,
I taste the irony in your name Mr. Lear.
And can only wish you an afterlife fixedto a barge floating down the river Styx
winding its way through the sewers of Dallas
encircling the sins of fraud and malice.And each time in passing pray you are sprayed
with the brains that flew from that motorcade.
In response to my whereabouts that day, I tell
how you taught us, you bastard, the classics so well.