The study of engineering at the undergraduate level involves a quaint phenomenon known as term work. This is a treatise on it. I wrote it sometime in the second semester of the third year of B.E. Thank you Prof. Walame, for being inspiring, err, wait, insipid and inane enough to inspire me to write this.
Dark clouds in summer skies
Were greeted with joyous cries,
A tinge of frustration showed through,
Students young and old - well, oldish, who
Wanted desperately to feel the cool breeze
Upon their faces, went about destroying trees;
'Cleaner, Larger, Sparser, Faster,'
Shouted their unliked master,
'You will write all this and much much more,
You'll write untill all your fingers are sore,
You'll draw figures 'n' sheets with pencils of wood,
You'll leave margins - two inches each - good!
Double space your words - it doesn't matter
If it reads like the work of a doped mad hatter;
Grammar no longer applies to your pen,
Numb your mind, and rewrite this, again,
Your arrows look like mosquitoes, oh please,
Write more now, ignore the breeze;
Your file's too thin, stuff it with more paper,
In obscurity will your work be safer,
Content is for old fools who're pretty senile,
Write more while it drowns in my bile,
No really, you're hopeless - this is wrong - so sad,
Don't ask me what's correct, umm, err, my memory's bad;
You were absent once that day, three years ago,
When asked to bend over, you actually said no,
You think I'm joking, but this is for your own good,
'cause there won't be left, to burn, any wood;
Write that again, the paper has a crease,
Oh, as I was saying, we're wasting all the trees,
Paper - you know it comes from them, you do?
How will you have any when all was written over by you?
So write more my minions,
I'll have more for you, for all seasons,
This assignment, that writeup,
Till your mind does cock up,
And then you'll know the need to write,
You'll lose your social life as you continue this into the night.
