Oh, how I would conduct my life in art
to override the mind's pathetic cries:
“Oh, give me science: fact and clear!” I start:
A part of me rejects my thought-out lies.
“There is no truth that's hard and right, and grants
some point to this whole place in which you grew.”
The plodding strange logician thinks, then rants:
“There's nothing you can say to change my view!”

But try as I might, I could not succeed;
I focused on painting, writing and song.
That quaint math'matician laughed at my need
to prove that its thesis was verily wrong.

And now here I stand, still trying to find
a way to convert that blasted set mind.