The Postdoc and the Professor

The lamp was shining on the desk,

Shining with all its might:

The Postdoc did their best to make

The sentences read right –

This could seem odd because it was

The middle of the night.

The lab was quiet as could be,

The office without a sound.

You could not hear a peep, except

The sampler spinning round:

No conversations could be heard –

No students were around.

The Postdoc and the Professor

Were working close at hand;

They wept like anything to see

The quantities of grading planned:

“If this were only cleared away”,

They said, “it would be grand!”

“If seven staff with seven pens

Graded for half a year.

Do you suppose,” the Postdoc said

“That they could get it clear?”

“I doubt it,” said the Professor

And shed a bitter tear.

“The time has come,” the Prof she said,

“To talk of other things:

Of papers – grants – and funding apps –

Of seminars – and things –

And if you please reviewer three –

You’ll think that pigs have wings.”

“It seems a shame”, the Postdoc said,

“To play such an evil trick,

After such hard work, analysis

And writing up so quick!”

The Professor said nothing but

“To publish is a trick!”

“The essays,” said the Professor

“We’ve avoided every one!

Shall we now get on with it?”

But answer came there none –

And this was scarcely odd, because,

The Postdoc did a run.