Hearken not unto that vile temptress,
Her words are venom spittled in your lobes.
Her wrenching of the truth, is relentless,
And oft concealed in academic robes.
The mind may be as clay unto her grip,
Free to form a fool where there was promise.
Stupidity is hidden in her slip,
And blissful ignorance in her bodice.
Laced with satin lies and silken guile,
Her bed has been a comfort and delight.
Know then that I'll walk the endless mile,
And suffer verity's eternal night.
Guard thee well, against her soft temptations.
Ignorance, the sickest of elations.
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