My supervisor’s eyes are like the sun.
Her mouth’s a spring of metaphoric beauty.
Her hair’s swept off her forehead in a bun.
She makes me think – of mindless promiscuity.
I know: I’ll make my essay so fantastic
Its style will set her lobes to pitter-pat;
Its skill will get her cortex orgiastic.
‘What brains!’ she’ll think – and ask me to her flat.
As custom and as manners here require
We’ll sit awhile and rap on Derrida,
Kristeva’s views of language and desire,
And ponder ‘On Seduction’ (Baudrillard).
But when we’ve done the pleasures of the text
And nothing more’s remaining to discuss
‘Guy,’ she’ll confess, ‘I’m feeling highly sexed,’
And give me Grade A Plus Plus Plus Plus Plus.