A Poem: Not Friday yet I hiss,

I could do more on my diss,

Check for errors I have missed,

Or I could not.

I could ensure no comma splice,

Look over every sentence twice,

Ensure every clause sounds nice,

Or I could not.

Check the argument is clear,

To make examiners shed a tear,

Panic over the deadline near,

Or I could not.

I could print it out once more,

And highlight it all as before,

Go over it again, making sure,

Or I could not.

I could add a bit more in,

Longer vocab to begin,

So all the work’s not in the bin,

Or I could not.

I’m at draft six,

Of my diss,

I’m nearly at the end,

I’m so close to getting pissed,

And seeing all my friends.

So if I do not,

Head into the abyss,

Of checking what I’ve got,

My work it does not dismiss,

But to read it again I cannot.

For I have written a dissertation,

Of twelve thousand words long,

A work months in duration,

My life it did not prolong.

It is nearly over.

It is almost at end.

And the very last thing I want to do,

Is to read it over again.

So this poem as a lamentation,

For my dissertation,

My life and its stagnation,

Due to Pinter’s isolation.

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