The Professor Who Professed to be Modest

The professor who professed to be modest,
Had a trait that was really the oddest,
He'd sit and he'd sit,
On a pit, yes - a pit,
And focus on only his wit.

His eyes,
They were closed,
As his breathing arose,
His diaphragm too as he dosed.

His legs,
They were folded,
With a gap.

In a lotus,
His thumbs touched,
In his lap.

His class took place in the sky,
In a building standing thirty feet high.

He sat and he sat,
And that was that,
And that was that.

So... while he did sit,
He cared not one bit,
If students were asking him questions.

You see, he was so quiet,
An unusual diet.

That's how he was...
Because...because.

He was watching a thought,
And the teaching he taught,
Was...
In his brain.

Ahhh!
Alas!!! What a class!!!
His students would complain,
They had nothing to gain.

Even if they sat with him for fifty or one hour,
Their talking and pleading had zero to the zero power...
Effect!
And yet...

His pondering was so deep,
He heard not a peep,
In his meditative sleep.

If a hen were to land on his nose,
Or a cock-a-too nibble his toes,
He'd stay on his pit,
Like a good little twit,
And ponder all that he knows.