With the pleasure supreme, the rapture extreme, Of filling statistical blanks. We gravely produce some ancestrial facts And the names of our children and wives, And we try to account for our various acts When we've not done a thing in our lives, We think of the books that we never have writ And the churches we do not attend We start to write something, then scratch out a bit, And sign our full names at the end. Our deeds are undone and our songs are unsung, But the students are gradually growing, The poets and statesmen are still rather young But shortly some heads may be showing.