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Fall 2005



I sat alone, apart, my mind sore vexed
By foci of parabola, and, worse,
Translations of y=f(x)--
The precalc student's thrice-detested curse.
I longed to be a million miles away,
To flutter through the window like a bird,
For "Set me any task but this, I pray!"
My heart cried out, unheeded and unheard.
Slumped forward with my hand beneath my chin,
I heard the muted cadence of your voice;
And when you told me what class you were in,
Then I repented no more of my choice.
For, while it is no picnic being me,
'Tis sweet indeed to think I am not thee.


I just wanted to rhyme something with y=f(x).
This really was written in precalc class.



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