Mathematics

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.

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"Mathematics" Poetry.net. STANDS4 LLC, 2020. Web. 25 Feb. 2020. <https://www.poetry.net/poem/3801/mathematics>.

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