Here follows a scrawled graffito on the toilet wall of life.
(Dedicated to my peers who have blazed this trail ahead of me.)
As a physicist, it is my curse
To commit my thoughts to lines of verse.
I cannot fight this weird compulsion,
Though it fills my readers with revulsion.
Is this the symptom of some dark neurosis,
Or just a need to keep up with the Jones'?
Whichever, I will continue to rhyme
To fill the empty moments of my time.
I'll pretend my day is a gay mosaic,
When really its boring, dull, prosaic.
My poems with swearing and sex will be rife,
To make it appear that I have a life.
I know this doesn't rhyme too well,
But its a miracle that I can spell;
In youth an English underachiever
And now a distant non-communicator...
What I really need to do
Is learn a social skill or two;
But there's no time, its come too late,
I'm off to stalk my office-mate.
Is this a cry for help, or some mad boast?
Am I bread and butter, or soon to be toast?
Get to know me, come and delve in,
Experience Life At Zero Kelvin!