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