He reads a piece on life and death,
but fills the room with his bad breath;
the joys he praises to the skies
in his own life are empty lies.
He took his life - so stale and cold -
pretends its meaning, pretends it's gold;
and, having spoken empty lines,
he thinks he's cast his pearls to swines.
The words he speaks of are abstract,
devoid of anything that's fact;
for if he were to say what's real
he might be forced to touch and feel.
A world on which he has no grip
he must control with tongue and lip;
just those who've studied, know their Greeks,
will know the things of which he speaks.
And then he'll blame the modern youth:
their stubborn will that shuns his truth;
but what is it that they should hear?
It makes more sense to choose flat beer.
He hopes that he will be admired
and be remembered when expired,
instead his listeners, looking stern,
think "Hurry up! We want our turn!"