An everyday occurrence in the halls of academe,

An everyday confusion,  which results in disesteem:

When A describes his fôrté, colleague B corrects with fôrte.

"You surely don’t say torté when you want to order torte?"

"Dissimilar dichotomy," A casts a monkey wrench,

"For torte is from the German, whereas fôrté comes from French."

"Then you should be the first to know," rejoins the irate B,

"The word from which our forte derives is French for 'strong,' mais oui."

"The French say soir, we say soirée. You’re addle to the core.

Your mind’s a ship of ignorance, adrift without an oar."

"Mais non, mon cher, c’est vous, c’est vous, qui ne voyez pas.

In Frankreich sagt man auch soirée; ich weiß, ich war mal da."

Sufficient impetus supplied, disdainful words fly round;

With angered minds’ fecundity indignities abound.

Hypotheses of parentage make both men's faces red.

Pariahs to each other now, they wish each other dead.

And then it’s done; they speak no more, not for about a year,