The students sit in creaky seats
In rigid rows in August.
They fidget under cotton pleats
And burn to be immodest.
They bat their lashes over books
That warn of base desires
And dream of tight, secluded nooks
And hard, upthrusting spires.
They thank Him for His sacrifice.
They gesture and intone.
They pray they land in paradise
And not the torrid zone,
Yet all the while scribble notes,
And boldly flirt, and plan
To circulate their wild oats
As if they worshiped Pan.