Ode to a dying professor

Pondering all those works of praise,
sparkle trim well-kept displays,
hair now various hues of grey;
remains set in his seat.

Gulps from same old coffee mug
(for almost a century's quarter)
Then chokes a rather awkward 'glug';
awareness that, on Persian rug,
the artefact that he had dug
‘d been crayoned by his daughter.
 
Volumes stretching ever-higher,
expansive as fine grains of sand;
some to which we all aspire,
others just a few'd admire,
shadowed by dark waves of fire;
written in his privileged hand.

Wrapped in kitschy tartan robe,
contemplating in the stealth,
armed with precious pen as 'probe'
from Harvard...Cambridge to La Trobe,
reaching beyond the temporal lobe;
thus gave he form to knowledge-wealth.

Yes politics shall sway berserk;
and as money-hungry demons quirk,
just let us pray this life-time's work,
no "holy" war consume!