I hate what the academy has become:
A rotted corpse, a heap of dung.

Polluting young minds with absurd phrases,
Poisoning them in garish phases,
That is the work of the teachers—
These gnostic doctors, these ungodly reapers.

But the students are not free from blame—
Reason they hold, yet passions they inflame
Killing their souls and then feel
The need to be pricked with steel.

Their fields are barren, they scorn birth:
The meek, then, shall inherit the earth.