‘Twas a sad and fretful morning,

For I knew anon that it would last,

So there I sat and thought hither, forlorning,

Of moments long and moments past.

‘Twixt us, young mind, there is no relation;

We are separated by a distant grave

On which the latter endures vicious beration

From which thyself he cannot save.

And so I ponder, my thoughts belittling

That the angel named hope wilt not relieve thy pain;

My breath dark and cold, digits aimlessly twiddling,

By devil or deduction, my spirit is slain.

Fie and farewell, my poor sane synapse!;

You have driven me to the point of collapse.