A Brief History of the Art of War

A poem ran into a professor of literature
leaning against a wall in a dark alley,
he recognized the deep crater where creativity had been,
“Big tiny world isn’t it,” the poem said.
“Maybe yours is,” the professor answered.
“I didn’t mean to offend,” the poem said. “What are you doing,?”
“I’m diagramming sentences,” the professor replied,
“anyway who are you, and what are you doing in my alley?”
“I’m a poem,” the poem said.
“That’s what they all say. I’ll be the judge of that,” the professor said assuredly,
lets see some I.D.”
“I don’t carry any,” the poem replied, “I’m self evident.”
“Where did you come from and what’s your background?”
“I can’t say exactly,” said the poem, “I’m never really sure.
My cousin the comedian says it’s the same place he’s from,
in any event I seem to fit in where ever I go.”
“You poems are all alike, the professor said, “suffering under your
illusions of adequacy and power. I want to help you.”
“How?” the poem asked.
The professor handed him a list of the rules of grammar,
“Read one of these every four hours and report back to me in a week.”
“No, I won’t,” said the poem, “I’m going to finish my walk
and look for my material.”
“What kind of material?”
“Weapons grade plutonium, the poem said, “it’s what I’m made of.”
“Ha! Just as I always thought,” the professor said,
“you poems are really terrorists in disguise”
“No, it’s just that people usually mistake me for the Dali Lama,”
the poem said, and walked away down the alley.
“Wait, you haven’t been excused,” the professor yelled.
“That’s where my power comes from,” the poem said and disappeared around the corner.