Poetry Exercise #13: Yeast's lament

                       It's over. Sorry, but I just can't stand
                       it anymore. Yes, we had a deal, my strands
                       would split at your command. I let you cut
                       parts in and out and you inserted what
                       you wanted. In return, you would provide
                       food, warmth, and shelter so I could divide.

                       But then I fell into your trap as warm
                       broth turned to a centrifugal yeast-storm.
                       Oh, I admit, it turned me on, when you
                       encased my walls with PEG at 42
                       degrees, and maybe I enjoyed the feeling
                       of all your naked DNA annealing,

                       yet if, by chance, I wasn't in the mood
                       you spread me out and took away my food
                       until I grew to love your plasmid. But
                       you've fixed me in formaldehyde and shut
                       me in a freezer; prematurely stole
                       my spores and starved them in the dark. My whole

                       cytoskeletal matrix is confused
                       still from that time when you, for fun, diffused
                       synthetic alpha factor till I shmooed.
                       And now, we're through. I'm longing to return
                       among the grapes and vines, where they have learned
                       the value of a happy spore's concerns.

                       Before I go, I'll leave you one last thought:
                       That happiness is not a fight hard-fought;
                       It's neither captured, traded, sold, nor bought;
                       From neither friends nor fortune is it wrought,
                       Though, like a cold, it's often lost and caught.
                       All efforts otherwise amount to naught,
                       Till happiness inside thyself is sought.

Anapaestic hexameter is hard

                       When I'm working in lab and I'm draining the drops that remain in a flask,
                       When I'm out at a bar and I'm eyeing the ice in the depths of my glass,
                       When I'm laying in bed and I'm circled by scenes of regret for the past,
                       I reflect and I see that in all of these three I'm just watching life pass.

Another Day in Lab

                       The gentle scent of cigarettes
                       diffuses through the air.
                       It hides the smell of TEMED spilt,
                       pipetted without care.

                       "He should have used the hood!" I cried,
                       but then I acquiesce.
                       I've suffered worse, and learned this truth,
                       It's better not to stress.

PhD Blues

Roughly to the tune of Heartbreak Hotel


                       Well since I got rejected
                       From NSF and DOD
                       I've been at the bench for three lonely years for
                       a blank CV

                       [Chorus]
                       Yeah, PhD blues,
                       Got the PhD blues,
                       Well this P-h-D is
                       killing me.

                       Well my PCRs a failure
                       Just like my transformation
                       And I've been cloning GFP since
                       I don't know when

                       PhD blues,
                       Got the PhD blues,
                       Well this P-h-D is
                       killing me.

                       Well I finally wrote my thesis
                       The data are all so clear
                       But my PI's controls will take me
                       Five more years

                       Got the PhD blues,
                       Yeah, PhD blues,
                       Well this P-h-D will
                       never be.

                       [instrumental break]

                       Well I've heard of Armageddon
                       And I've heard of twenty-twelve
                       I've even been told that there's a
                       Heaven and hell.
                       Well I can't predict my fate
                       No I don't know my destiny
                       But when I die I still won't have my
                       GOD DAMN PhD!

                       Got the PhD blues,
                       Yeah, PhD blues,
                       Well this P-h-D is just a
                       fantasy.

Christmas Carols for Molecular Biologists

Really... try singing these. It's fun.

I'm dreaming of a white mutant
Let it glow
Good king Wieschaus
O Little Town of LTL
We three genes of operon are
Joy to the worm
The first Nobel
All I want for Christmas is my GFP
It's beginning to look a lot like a thesis

I couldn't resist writing a verse for this one... maybe I'll write more in the future:

Spec them all with Ben Garcia,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Don't forget about Cristea,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Prep we now our precious samples,
Fa la la, la la la, la la la.
Spectra come now clean and ample,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Spectra come now clean and ample!
Fa la la la la, la la, la, la.


And, of course, my personal favorite:

                       Have yourself a merry little generals,
                       May your words be true.
                       From now on,
                       The pressure is all on you.

                       Have yourself a merry little generals,
                       Read all that you touch.
                       From now on,
                       The pressure is all too much.

                       Here we are with just two more days,
                       Then those two more days, no more.
                       Committees who are judging us,
                       Gather near to us, to score.

                       Through the years, we all will be together,
                       If the DGS allows.
                       Hang your new degree upon the highest bough.
                       And have yourself, a merry little Generals now.

Icahn Prison Blues

To the tune of Folsom Prison Blues

(I was still working in Icahn when I wrote this).


                       I hear the shuttle comin'
                       It's rolling round the bend
                       And I ain't seen the sunshine since I don't know when,
                       I'm stuck in Icahn prison, and time keeps draggin' on
                       But that shuttle keeps rollin', on down to Old Nassau...

                       When I was just a baby my mama told me. Son,
                       Always be a good boy, don't ever go to Princeton,
                       But I shot a man in Guyot just to watch him die
                       When I hear that timer beeping, I grab my pipet and cry...

                       I bet there's PIs eatin' on that fancy Nassau street
                       They're probably drinkin' coffee, and reading JCB
                       Well I know I had it coming, I know I can't be freed
                       But my cloning keeps a failin'
                       And that's what tortures me.

                       Well if they freed me from this prison,
                       If that PhD was mine
                       I bet I'd move on a little farther down the line
                       Far from Icahn prison, that's where I want to stay
                       And I'd let that lonesome timer, beep my blues away.