a poem about bored teachers in faculty meetings

I wrote this a few years ago, after looking around a faculty meeting at several zoned out colleagues.

In the Middle Ages,
were there second-rate martyrs,
friars who offered up
thrice used prayers from folders filled
with last years' parchments?
Did any go to the gallows
rolling their eyes and sighing
heavily?
Were there holy men at the Diet of Worms
doodling runes in the margins of manuscripts?
Did Father Do-Little
look out the window and dream
while others debated transubstantiation and
the Holy Mystery?
Were there monks who phoned it in?
Who celebrates these also-rans,
the guys and gals who may have meant well
in the beginning,
but somewhere along the way got tired?
Let us today praise below-average saints,
hosanna in the pretty-high.
In every group portrait tucked in a triptych,
someone must fill in the background,
come in 5th place in the tapestry weaving contest,
look up adoringly at the Bishop of Chartres.
Today, with the grace of God,
There go I.