After “The Bacchae” of Euripides Along a path exposed to view For forty yards or so below My third floor room in which I taught Greek Tragedy there minced a young   Bejewelled, bearded commie prof In tightly fitting leather gear, Tossing his perfumed shoulder-length Dyed Che Guevara hair back from   Glazed eyes, while lost-soul students danced Attendance all around, hooked by The new permissiveness. Through slits In blinds drawn to the narrowest   To better focus hate, I watched And willed that he would fall to bits Before he reached the library. As Pentheus parting the leaves  …