The Professor

Hundred and fifty years old
A mind colored in gold
He barely believes he’s alive
Knuckles and blood’s getting dry
Can’t go to sleep at night
He has to complete his fight
But everything draws towards an end
He cannot any longer pretend
But his work and ideas still live
There’s so much more to give
There must be a way this can be solved
A solution both simple and bold
As clear as lightning from the sky
As obvious as day and night
The idea was that the professor, of course
Needed a successor