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.