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This is a parody of The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe, one of my favourite pieces of poetry, about a poor PhD student struggling to finish the write up of his thesis. He is visited by a postdoc from the best funded research floor of the building, who comes bearing ominous warnings about just how long he might be here. I should point out that I’m exagerating life as a PhD student for comedy purposes It’s not really that bad, and my supervisor in fact was very supportive and understanding!

This version has actually been updated from the original so as to be more general and appropriate for you, dear reader, to impress your friends with. As always, however, it may not be reproduced or published in any way without my prior consent, and I’d appreciate an email if you read it to your group or anything! Now…

Once Upon a Thesis Dreary

by Joel Gilmore

Once upon a thesis dreary, while I pondered, eyes so bleary,
Over a many terse and tort(u)’rous volume of old physics lore,
While I suffered, shoulders slumping, suddenly there came a clumping,
And the sound of someone thumping, thumping at my office door.
“’Tis my supervisor! Horror! Thumping at my office door!
This it is, of that I’m sure

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the dread September,
And my chequered thesis chapters lay like corpses on the floor.
Vainly I sought to submit it, but my Prof. would not permit it,
Though my word count reached its limit, for this thesis I abhor,
Though I’d written more than Tolstoy, on this thesis I abhor,
Still my Prof. said, “Write some more”

And my phone calls to the MedLine tripled as each passing deadline,
Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before
So that now, to stop the screaming, I betook myself to dreaming,
Of escape by Star Trek beaming, to some distant, alien shore.
Risking life and limb to fight ‘gainst evil on a distant shore –
Better this, than writing more.

Presently, my heart grew stable, calling then from ‘neath the table,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, your forgiveness I implore.
But the fact is I was…working… and so softly you came lurking,
(With your arrogance so irking) lurking just outside my door
That I thought I could ignore you, here I opened wide the door,
Fluoros there, and nothing more.

Deep into that hallway peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Had he seen me browsing news feeds, and those emails from Lenore?
But the hallway was uncluttered, not an insect out there fluttered,
And the only word there uttered was a whispered “Professor”?
This I whispered and an echo murmured back the word “GET BACK TO WORK!”
Firmly this, and nothing more.

Turning back then to my comic, wishing for a gin and tonic,
Soon again I heard a thumping even louder than before
“Surely”, said I, “this is [rude! It] must be some unhappy student
Who, since failing, thought it prudent help to seek from their tutor
Sponging off the generous, gentle, gifted guy that’s their tutor.
Merely this, and nothing more.

Open then my door went flying, and amidst my frantic crying,
In there stepped a sexy postdoc of the topmost research floor
Not the least obeisance made she, but, with glare like Lord or Lady,
Firmly further chat forbade she, standing firm in front my door,
Watching while I faked at working, with crossed arms in front my door.
Watched, and glared, and nothing more

And her stare my soul dismembered, ‘til I suddenly remembered!
She was once my Prof’s old student, in his saintly days of yore.
“Though thy blouse be creased and crumpled, thou,” I said, “art sure no humbled
Researcher, with theories jumbled, given all the grants you score.
Tell me of thy research project, gifted by those grants you score.
Quoth the postdoc, “Evermore”

And this postdoc, smirking slyly, or, some might say, even wryly,
Seemed content, as if a one word research plan would money draw
Nothing further then she mumbled, only watching while I bumbled,
Till I up and finally grumbled, “I’ll be finished soon, for sure –
Not much longer will I be here, struggling, suffering, I am sure.”
Then she quoteth, “Evermore.”

Back to my computer turning, all my soul within me burning,
Straight I Googled Edgar Allan, finding parodies galore
For this all seemed like a [po(e)m, a] rip off of an ancient [tome, a]
TV tale with Bart, and Homer! And with rhyming matches poor –
From some slacking sad grad student who’s run out of rhymes for “poor”,
Forced to use, er, “Balthazor”.

Then, methought the air grew stuffy, perfumed by an unseen coffee
Brewed by Mr. Beans whose java journeys from a far flung shore!
“Yes!” I cried, “My Prof. hath lent thee, by this angel he hath sent me,”
“Respite, respite and fresh coffee, from the pain of writing more!
Quaff, oh quaff, this fresh brewed coffee and start work renewed once more!”
Quoth the postdoc, “Evermore.”

“Thesis!” said I, “Thing of evil, since my lab is medieval!
Whether my Prof. sent thee, or just slacking brought thee here ashore.
Tell this soul with research paining, if when he’s completed training,
And his PhD obtaining, will his income still be poor?
When I’m part of academia, surely I won’t still be poor?
Quoth the postdoc, “Evermore”

“Thesis!” said I, “Thing of evil! Soon I’ll finish the retrieval
Of the ref’rences whose abstracts form my intro chapter’s core
Working weekends, all undaunted, rarely with results I wanted,
Even by my colleagues taunted, tell me truly I implore
How long – how long will I be here? Tell me, tell me, I implore!
Quoth the postdoc, “Evermore”

“That is so our word in closing, funded fiend,” I shrieked opposing.
Get thee back to your posh tea room, and your cappuccino pour!
Leave no preprints as a token of the lie thy soul hath spoken,
Leave my writing up unbroken – my years here won’t go past four!
Surely writing one more chapter won’t extend my years past four!
Quoth the postdoc, “Evermore.”

And the postdoc, never caring, still is staring. Still is staring
At my futile fevered efforts on this thesis I deplore.
And her eyes have all the gleaming of a supervisor scheming,
And the tears down my cheeks streaming pool like shadows on the floor.
And my thesis that lies red inked ‘mongst the shadows on the floor
I’ll be writing – Evermore!

Copyright Joel Gilmore, 2006