By: Wm Shakespipette
All the world's a lab,
And all the men and women merely subjects:
They have theri theses and exams,
And one doc in his time plans many experiments
His notes in seven stages. At first the _undergrad_,
mewlink and puking at the frat house jams.
And then the winning _doctorate_, with his papers
And statistical analysis, doing just enough
If only to graduate. And then the _postdoc_,
Wailing like hell, with a woeful ballad
Of experiments gone sour. Then _assoicate prof_,
Full of strange theories and requiring a tech,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in temper,
Seeking the bubble reputation
While kissing the chairman's butt. And then the _tenure_,
In fair round belly with good postdocs lined,
With eyes severe and pen to thesis cut,
Full of wise saws and forgotten techniques;
And so he plays his part. The sixt stage shifts
To the lean and slippered _chair_
With spectacles on nose and job on the side,
His theories of youth, well saved, a world to weird
For his shrunk grant; and so his "go get'em" attitude
Turning again towards mild caution, tempered
Theories all around. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is status _emeritus_ and mere oblivion,
sans students, sans postdocs, sans grants, sans everything.
http://www.xs4all.nl/~jcdverha/scijokes/8_3.html#0423_7
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