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.