Religion, an opiate of the masses,
Says the Prof, lecturing in his classes.
“College used to be a carrier pigeon
For this terrible thing called ‘religion.’
Where all must believe the orthodoxy,
And stick to dogma like epoxy.
Now all have freedom to have points of view,
As long as you conform to what I tell you.
Marx was brilliant, but I disavow,
His acolytes like Stalin, Pol Pot and Mao.
Let me elucidate why you should scorn,
Everything you’ve been taught since you were born.
There exist no facts in this world of ours,
Only opinion — above all, NPR’s.”
I can’t remain quiet, a naive hellion,
“But consider the Boxer Rebellion.”
“But what do you mean?” he said with a frown,
Preparing what ‘ere I say to shut down.
“The rebels thought that they’d not be harmed,
By British weapons because they were charmed.
One day the last thing that went through their head,
Was British bullets, and then they were dead.
Wrong-headed ‘opinion’ in actuality,
When faced with the physics of reality.”
He stared at me, his eyes exuding scorn,
Choosing a response — he really was torn.
“Depends on what ‘is’ is, surely you see,
Otherwise your thinking is so bourgeoisie.
That’s all for today,” he spoke with aplomb,
And ran for the door as though from a bomb.
That’s how it transpired, at least in my dream,
But that’s not how to survive academe.
Just sit and take notes and get your degree,
If in the right club you desire to be.