By Epiphanios o Philomousos
I wandered down the corridor
A door there stood ajar
Interrogatives pouring out
With different intonations each
When I looked inside
I saw a syntactician and a prosodicist
At the far end of the corridor
Nouns were floating through the air
And a computational semanticist
Tried to catch them with synonymic nets
And neat mathematical equations.
But the third door, in the middle,
Was locked. A sign proclaimed:
“Access to morphologists only.”
What was inside? Morphomata.