From every undergraduate I’ve taught,
Quite unbeknownst to them, I’ve swiped one day,
One idle, frivolous day, and not been caught
And added it to those I have to stay—
Or more exactly, from my mounting age
Subtracted it, and thus delayed decay:
Their youth and beauty now work to assuage
The ravages of years on mortal clay.
Should I apologize for my sly theft?
Is this verse recompense enough to pay
For what I’ve taken? Are they so bereft
As to begrudge me just a single day?
I’ve spent it all on writing poetry
Which, good enough, perhaps excuses me.