It's not as terrific as it could be (or should be). I was told my room was atrocious, this was my response.


Pristine drawers and messy floors,
What says this of what a man implores?

A tidy man, a tidy mind.
A messy man, his brain maligned.

Six plus four is ten, no more,
And praise be given to its compact form,
But divide by three and the number seems,
To fade into a chaos eternally.

How can a man make sense of such mess?
It's unbearable to look, and a painful distress,
But fear not, because there is a way,
Three and third, doth the tidy man say.

But we are not through, this madness yet suffuse,
What times itself is two, if we dare muse,
One point four and one and four,
Two and one and three and five,
This drudgery proceeded forevermore.

And no fraction to represent, this number refuses.

Oh it doesn't stop there,
continue does this disordered affair,
Numbers essential become transcendental,
Like π and e and numbers so strange,
It's impossible to insist,
If they do or don't exist.

So don't get in a fiddle about the mess around,
Because the numbers we see,
Do not conform as we please.

Fold sheets into squares, but beware,
It does not escape irrationality,
For each square made, are two diagonals there,
With a length times two of radical modality.

Better to be comfortable with chaos surround,
Because numbers do not heed,
no matter how much we plead.

I came here for pancakes. This poem does not have pancakes. Where are my pancakes, Sac? Why did you lie to me?

That. Is. Adorable. My dog would eat it.