I've really done enough of sums, I've done so very many, That now instead of doing sum I'd rather not do any. I've toiled until my fingers are With writing out of joint; And even now of Decimals I cannot see the point. Subtraction to my weary mind Brings nothing but distraction, And vulgar and improper I Consider every fraction.
"Practice makes perfect," so they say. It may be true. The fact is That I unhappily am not Yet perfect in my Practice.
Discount is counted troublesome By my unlearned pate; For cubic root I entertain A strongly rooted hate.
The heathen worship stocks and stones; My pious soul it shocks To be instructed thus to take An Interest in Stocks.
Of Algebra I fear I have A very vague impression; I study hard, but fail to make Harmonical Progression.
In Euclid too I always climb The Asses' Bridge with pain; A superficies to me Is anything but plane.
"Apply yourself," my master said, When I my woes confided, "And, when you multiply, bestow Attention undivided."
Oh, if one master tries so hard Tyrannical to be, How out of all Proportion I Should find a Rule of Three.
- by Arthur Clement Hilton29
By Algernon Charles Sin-Burn Strange beauty, eight-limbed and eight-handed, Whence camest to dazzle our eyes? With thy bosom bespangled and banded With the hues of the seas and the skies; Is thy home European or Asian, O mystical monster marine? Part molluscous and partly crustacean, Betwixt and between. Wast thou born to the sound of sea trumpets? Hast thou eaten and drunk to excess Of the sponges -- thy muffins and crumpets, Of the seaweed -- thy mustard and cress? Wast thou nurtured in caverns of coral, Remote from reproof or restraint? Art thou innocent, art thou immoral, Sinburnian or Saint?
Lithe limbs, curling free, as a creeper That creeps in a desolate place, To enroll and envelop the sleeper In a silent and stealthy embrace, Cruel beak craning forward to bite us, Our juices to drain and to drink, Or to whelm us in waves of Cocytus, Indelible ink!
O breast, that 'twere rapture to writhe on! O arms 'twere delicious to feel Clinging close with the crush of the Python, When she maketh her murderous meal! In thy eight-fold embraces enfolden, Let our empty existence escape, Give us death that is glorious and golden, Crushed all out of shape!
Ah! thy red lips, lascivious and luscious, With death in their amorous kiss, Cling round us, and clasp us, and crush us, With bitings of agonised bliss; We are sick with the poison of pleasure, Dispense us the potion of pain; Ope thy mouth to its uttermost measure And bite us again!
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