Boredom in Mathematics

I feel a pain within my breast
My heart has ceased to beat.
Letters sprung, from bleeding tongue,
In rows they spell defeat.
The words are fragments of a song
the steps are from a dance.
From this springs, the devils dreams,
The rest I leave to chance.
Poor Faust may know my troubled sleep
and sympathize with me.
And come to hide, at my side,
lest He awake an see.





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