An L-egy for a Pundit

By Satch Carlson

A cunning punning linguist is our San Diego Dan,
In fifty years he’s grown into a words-and-letters man.
We celebrate his wit and style, and hope for decades more,
Though we whinge and cringe and grimace when our Dan oh-puns the door.
The pun’s the lowest form of wit, they say—and if that’s so,
Then Dan, alas, must surely pass as highest of the low.
But cunning punsters see themselves in salutary lights,
Convinced that clever wordplay elevates them to great heights.
No withering glares or baleful stares could e’er deter their cause,
Our groaning moans and moaning groans are taken for applause.
Indeed, they say that such as Dan have formed a secret cabal,
A brotherhood of punsters who compete in wordy babble.
A trophy waits the master chef—that linguistic gourmet
Who mixes jests to best the rest at putting words in play.
They say the honor goes to him who has the wit to cook it;
And if it’s true, I say to you: Our dear old friend Dan Took it.