"You sure you be wantin' to take this class, boy?"

"If there's writing to be done, sir, I'm the one to do it. Uh one, uh two, uh one-two-three-four. `I'm the type of guy, who likes to write a line, I'm a writer, huh! woah, woah, a writer..."

"Oooooooh," swooned a chorus of soprano literati.

"I wonder if he always write alone?" wondered the Edwardian from between the earphones of her walkman.

Jill made the Virginia Woolf tattoo on her bicep dance, brushed her crew cut and said, "I thought you were planning to get seriously into writing this term, Betty Sue."

"Maybe I am," Betty Sue replied, watching Johnny pen a love poem on her ankle.

"He's just another macho lowlife, Betty Sue. Kick his teeth in."

"But he's so anachronistic," swooned Betty Sue.

"We've just been doing introductions, boy," said Professor Wordsworth. "Tell the class, Johnny, just what kind of writing do you do?"

"Rockin' roll writing, sir," said Johnny.

"Rockin' roll writing, boy?" said Wordsworth.

"Rockin' roll writing, sir," Johnny said again, climbing onto a desk and singing into an unsheathed Bic ball point: "You should of heard them modernist poets writin' rock/ Everybody let's rock/ Viva Cambridge, people!..."

The class cut loose and began surfing on the desktops, spreading beach blankets and drawing deuce-coups on the blackboard.

Wordsworth's cry pierced the air: "Any publication credits?"

"Eh, no sir," said Johnny, a pelvic narrative frozen in midtwist. "Not yet."