As grubs in dung piles batten in the dark
Then when they ripen climb a tree–and hark–
On wings of filth they fan the heated air
And drone to one and all that they are there,
So this grub-fellow duly crammed his maw
With mards of learning and with gleets of gall
And from his choler rears an envious sting
And with a locust’s voice attempts to sing
Creaking a mindless me! me! me!
He creeps and clings and broadcasts idiocy.
And if we question him, with insect spite
He spits in our face, and then attempts to bite.
Oh Kent Johnson may your fame endure
As long as sows turn tail to lusty boars
As long as maggots tunnel septic wounds
Or hookworms make their first home in the lungs
Or weasels rat and rats disburse their fleas
To bring infection to an infant’s eyes.
As long as capons peck in piles of sh*t
May you win plaudits for your witless wit.