My friends all talk about their Master’s Theses

Frankly, it sounds like rock hard feces

While sitting on a hollow stool

Feeling like an utter fool

Wanting to empty from being full

At the same time, playing it cool

As you pick up something to read

To perhaps find an idea to seed

Consideration will allow it to sprout

With an elated joyous shout

Your read some more so it may grow

Then you might have something to show

As you sit and contemplate

Wondering what is your fate

How long will you have to sit

Until you can finally take a shit

Hoping your thesis is not excrement

But rather a precise decrement

Growing slighter in precision

Is a Master’s final mission

To find the words true to the story

Out and onward to glory!