See there, what are those pestilent that smother
In the muck? And there, I see, ignored
Within the mire, more are stuck; and Lord!
Behold, one bunches up to bid another
Well! Though unobtrusively, its brother
It disdains with such a tell. With bored
Enthusiasm, one will slither toward
A wretched thing as if to give the other
An award. But lo! What it intends!
Now can it actually be, to grant
The other honours and a meaningless
Degree? How sweet, if my corrupted friends
Would slyly acquiesce, to grant me scanty
Honours with an automatic yes.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all: