An urchin writes

 

Even in the cobbled streets streets of London one is not free from the impudence of urchins. The under-butler, rightly embarrassed, told me that when he answered the front door the bedraggled youth thrust the missive into his hand, muttered “Anapestic trimeter” and ran away into the fading foggy lamp-light, not even demanding a penny. The front door, I ask you! I blame the 1870 Education Act.

I show it exactly as found, including a telling reference to ISIR (the International Society for Intelligence Research) and offer a prize to anyone who can track the youth down, and turn him in to the proper authorities, for transportation.

Rushton and Jensen and Me

 

I took a young lady to dinner

In hopes I might take her to bed:

She looked at me over the table

And “What do you study?” she said.

I chewed on my nail and pondered

Just how in the world to reply;

But I could not contrive an invention,

So I told her the truth, with a sigh.

“You really––” she ventured (half-trembling),

“Ah, waiter, please bring us our checks.”

It’s been a full month and a few days,

And she’s not returned one of my texts.

            O, in this dark era a g-man

            Is a terribly hard thing to be:

            Suspicion and hate are our doom and our fate––

            Just ask Rushton, or Jensen, or me.

 

‘Twas a dull August morning in psych class,

When a-sudden the lecturer cited

A gap with which we’re all familiar…

Well, didn’t that leave me delighted!

Hurrah and three cheers! A good fellow!––

Then he said: “It’s environment, you see,

For the diff’rence I mentioned is absent

In children whose age is but three.”

I could not contain my annoyance,

And (beshrew it!) I shot up my hand….

The tale of the Racist Young Freshman

Still rings ‘cross the length of the land.

            O, in this dark era a g-man

            Is a terribly hard thing to be;

            Our data and figures are “aggressions” and “triggers”––

            Just ask Nyborg, or Watson, or Herrnstein or Murray,

            Or Rushton, or Jensen, or me.

 

In lecture-halls, seminars, meetings

Where we students have gathered to chat,

From the lesbian slam poets’ dorm room

To the den of the seediest frat––

Any mention of my avocation,

Without fail, will draw gasps and hisses;

The fellows will groan; and I’ll notice

A blanch on the cheeks of the misses.

So I hole up, alone, and I forego

The parties and clubs and such stuff;

If only they’d love and accept me…

My professors are assholes enough.

            O, in this dark era a g-man

            Is a terribly hard thing to be:

            Is there no one on Earth who perceives our works’ worth?

            Just ask Summers, Satoshi, or Sarich or Scarr,

            Or Nyborg, or Watson, or Herrnstein and Murray,

            Or Rushton, or Jensen, or me.

 

Will we tolerate these constant aggressions?

Will we just let The Man keep us down?

Or will we rise, and shake off our shackles,

And take to the streets of the town?

Let’s march on the quad and the library

And strike up an infernal clatter––

Our banner emblazoned with Matrices,

And below: ISIR LIVES MATTER!

We will throw out the meanies and bigots…

And then we will finally be free,

In a world where no one is enragèd

At an I or a Q or a g.

         O, in this dark era a g-man

         Is a terribly hard thing to be:

         But stand up and fight, for you know we are right!

         (Gabriel there.) Soon we shall be free….

         Sing the names of our martyrs: of Richwine or Scott,

         Or Rindermann, Charlton, Shockley, or Lahn,

         Or Harpending, Levin, Bouchard, or Cattell,

         Or Summers, Satoshi, or Sarich or Scarr,

         Or Nyborg or Watson or Herrnstein or Murray

         Or Rushton, or Jensen, or me.