my lifestyle fattens roaches
floor is covered in paper crumbs
the only answer i can muster
is two politically raised thumbs

campaign the brain from frontal to temporal
with photocopied speeches about progress
"if you and i" i tell them "work together"
"we can accomplish anything, even a thesis"

but them whore hours pass like gas from chili
and only coffee masks the dying of the soul
when only the left index finger is left typing
what can a researcher do but fill the glass with alcohol