With apologies to Lewis Carroll, who is spinning in his grave.
‘Twas grad school, and the slithy gels
did gyre and gimble on the bench
All mimsy was the PCR
In front of this lab wench.
“Beware the Dissertation!” they cried
“The data that sucks, the committees that catch
Beware the late night hours
and woe, your weekends it will snatch!”
I took vorpal pipette in hand
long time the maximum hypothesis sought
’til rested I in papers with a sigh
and sat a while in thought.
And as in uffish thought I stood
The Dissertation, with aims unnamed
came wiffling through my fevered brain
and burbled as it came.
one-A, one-B, two-A, two-C!
And through and through
My specific aims soon to be complete
I left it dead, and took its head
to my committee to compete.
And hast thou slain the thesis aims!?
Back to the bench, young candidate!
Your standard error is glory, but a complete story
Is needed to graduate…
‘Twas grad school, and the thesis aims
did gyre and gimble, the model bent,
all mimsy mocked my data points
to this poor, sad student.
(The Jabberwocky, aka the Thesis)
Filed under: Terrible Poetry