The Professor

His office an absolute fortress
Hewn from old oak and rawhide
He rules it the way he sees best
As his books serve him as his guide

No regard for modern conventions
Even less for modern day rules
He maintains his steadfast contention
That the college is run by some fools

The policies are stupid and useless
And only give him reason to gripe
He relaxes away his undue stresses
As he fires up his huge pipe

A vision as Saint and as Santa
With gray hair and very large frame
The smoke curls like his antennae
And settles slowly in his thick mane

Each student who enters is humbled
By the knowledge contained in the man
And before this giant they crumble
As they hope to learn all that they can