The Mentor

In honor of one of the most badass Baltimorians ever we write this poem in the style of The Raven

Once upon a midnight shitty, while pipetting sad with pity 

Over many a curious and conundrum of weird data lore— 

While I nodded, aka napping, came a sudden and violent tapping

Along with bad rapping, rapping behind the tissue culture door

“tis some undergrad” I muttered, rapping Jay-Z quite poor—

So bad it's offensive, I must ignore

Ah distinctively it was the peak of deadline season; 

With infrequent yet loud wails heard all throughout the floor

Desperately I wished for morrow; — my labmates Adderall I did borrow

To work through my sorrow — sorrow in my statistical score—

For the glorious and completely valid .05 we call the significant score— 

For success we need it evermore

And the clothy sad uncertain rustling of each lab coat

Shrilled me — filled me with terror never felt before;

So that now, to still my rapid heart beating, experiments I kept repeating

“Tis a mistake or error, in my score—

Need to try it again, twice, thrice or four—

This is it, nothing more."

Resolving and my soul grew stronger, hesitating no longer 

“Project” said I “and data for this I do implore;

But here I am napping, pipetting around terrible rapping,

Nothing is working, ideas scrapping, yapping in my mind pure core

I ran the numbers one more time, my body and hands grown sore;—

Still f****** insignificant, nothing more.

Deep into that monitor peering, long I stood there wondering fearing,

Doubting dreaming dreams no scientist dared to dream before;

But the lack of importance remained unbroken, the statistics gave no token,

And the only words whispered in my mind were "insignificant score"

Merely this and nothing more

Back into my lab bench turning, all my soul within me burning

Once again my inner monologue yapping trying to find something useful from before

“Surely” said I “surely there is some value in this project 

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this hypothesis explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this hypothesis explore;

F***, it is bullshit and nothing more!”

In my office I closed the shutter, cried, wailed cursed with stutter

In there stepped my ancient mentor of the crappy days of yore

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

With swagger of tenured lord or lady, standing by my office door —

Holding a foul coffee, copy of stained Science magazine, standing by my office door—

            Standing, then sat, and nothing more.

Then this wrinkled mentor beguiling my sad fancy into crying

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance they wore,

“Though thy head be bald and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Mentor wandering around the laboratory floor —

Tell me truly I can get this project wretched from thy shitty P to get that significant score!”

            Quoth the Mentor “Nevermore.”

Much I marveled with a restrained scowl to hear discourse so plainly foul,

Though thy answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet felt blessed with seeing their mentor at their office door—

Man or beast with much tenured swag sitting by their office door,

            Stating their project is “Nevermore.”

But the Mentor, sitting lonely by the janky desk, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther then he uttered—not a discussion was ever puttered—

Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other bad projects have succeeded before—

On the morrow more experiments sure, the p will be significant as it has been before.”

            Then the Mentor said “Nevermore.”

 Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what you utter is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy study section whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till your projects one burden bore—

Till the dirges of your Hope that melancholy burden bore

            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

But the Mentor still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I fancied throwing my cushioned seat at the Mentor sitting by the door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous state of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous seniored mentor of yore

            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the mentor whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted lab floor.

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy Boss hath lent thee—by these departments he hath sent thee

Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of a significance score;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost significance score!”

            Quoth the Mentor “Nevermore.”

“Manager!” said I, “thing of evil!—manager still, if mentor or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

On this career by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in industry?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

            Quoth the Mentor “Nevermore.”

“Manager!” said I, “thing of evil!—manager still, if mentor or devil!—

 By that department that bends above us—by that manuscript we both adore—

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp an awesome project with impact and a significant score—

Clasp a clear and effect phenotype with impact and a significant score.”

            Quoth the mentor “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, mentor or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and thy own office floor!

Leave no foul smell as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my project unbroken!—quit the opinion of which thy are so sure!

Take thy knife from out my heart, and take thy form from my door!”

            Quoth the Mentor “Nevermore.”

And the Mentor, never remanding, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the ashes of my broken project, sitting just next to my office door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

            Shall be lifted—nevermore!