You gasp and you grasp, and you'll struggle in vain;
For it seems you have cells in your cerebral cortex,
Which is somehow connected, I fancy, with brain.
Exhausted and panting with under-nutrition,
You dare not presume to declare yourself well,
And you rapidly tend to complete inanition,
Produced by a morbidly sensitive cell.
The result is a wound to the temper, a something
Not as deep as a well, but, no matter, it serves,
Perplexing your friends, who pronounce it a rum thing