Upon Becoming a Doctor

Allons! This piece of poetry
Is written by a Doctor of Lit,
A degree that my friend Peter Stitt
Persuaded his college to give to me:
Gettysburg College in Pa.,
A Lutheran school in the famous town.
I drove there for Commencement Day,
Following the route of Lee
Seeking the flank of Gen. Meade,
And parked, and found a room, and peed,
Donned the honorary gown
And followed the professors down
Through the deep perspiring crowd
Who peered at me with faces bowed,
Wondering how long I’d gas,
And past the graduating class
Up to the platform where, aloof,
Imperial beneath a roof,
Our magnificent parade
Sat down and surveyed
The situation:
Youth in the sun and age in the shade,
Which has been true since creation.
Age will rule while youth must seek;
Youth must listen to age speak;
And now it was my turn.

I stood

 

And adjusted my doctoral hood,
Nodded to the classic
Brow of President Charles Glassick
And, to the right, the patient rows
Of academic buffaloes,
And with a swirl of gown and sleeve
Advanced dignified
To the podium to receive
The crowd’s applause though it had died.
A long pause for the removal
From my pocket of my dark dense notes—
Down front, a storm of clearing throats—
I glanced to the sky for His approval
And took a good deep breath, and then,
Behind me where the degrees were piled,
Behind our row of distinguished men,
Came the voice of a little child,
So shrill and yet so pure:
You’re no Doctor of Literature,
Never were and never will be.
Your writing goes from bad to worse.
You don’t deserve a doctor degree,
You ain’t even literature’s nurse.
I turned and saw my old pal Pete
Leap like a champion from his seat,
Snatch that tot and slap its wrist
And make it hop
And wash its mouth with soap
And send it home to the busted shack
Down beside the railroad track,
Where it lived in squalor with its pop,
A noted deconstructionist.
Which taught the child one thing, I hope,
And that is: merit only goes so far.
People who do their best to be
The best find out they are what they are
And have to fall back upon loyalty.
I’m too old to search for truth or
Be a follower of Luther,
But I’m glad to sit beneath their tree
(Thanks to my friend Pete) a P
h. (for honorary) D.