'Twas brilliant, and the flighty tomes
Did guile and quibble in the libe;
All whimsy were the conundromes,
And the morass did gibe.
"Beware the Philosoph, my son!
The jaws that jaw, the claims that grip!
Beware the Journal bird, and shun
The Voluminous Manuscript!"
He took his verbal sword in hand:
Long time the grue-some foe he sought--
So rested he by the Theorem tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in published thought he stood,
The Philosoph, with eyes of flame,
Came scoffing through the cogent word,
And babbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The verbal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went commencing back.
"And hast though slain the Philosoph?
Come to my arms, my thesis boy!
O factious day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brilliant, and the flighty tomes
Did guile and quibble in the libe;
All whimsy were the conundromes,
And the morass did gibe.