What kind of work is this?
What a piece of work is this?
By James Ross
What a piece of work is this, that pains my hand and makes me list?
Scribbles on a paper screen are graphite black of lustrous sheen
What it portends no one can know, for we're but puppets in a show
O’er scratching of a pen we hear the jeers outside our den
The professors who guide our dance with mocking laughter watch us prance
As to and fro we spin and twist while notebooks slowly slit our wrist
For aught else can we abide but just to take it in our stride
Frantically we run the race with laughter burning in our face
And lest these pains we know no more, we tiptoe back within our door
There is work we've still to do, this maelstrom, this sickly stew
Through whirling mass of math and lab we saunter blindly, take a stab
There's the chance for which we live, that answers still can pleasure give
Though deaf and dumb we take flight and shoot the moon for answers right