I wander through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
A mark in every face I meet,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
More wittering on the test I took, test I took, test I took. More wittering on the test I took, test I took, test I took. More, oh, hang on, the chorus is over, get to the verse.
See that test I took? Well, no, you can’t, and I can’t (anymore), nor do I even know my result, but I reckon 60%. Whyso so low? Whyso solo? Why solo? Well, I can tell you. A lot of the time I was disambiguating the question. Double negatives? Check. Versions I don’t use? Check. Languages I don’t speak? Check. And check again. Acryonmns I don’t know? Check. Jargon for the sake of it? Oh yes.
In every cry of every man,
In every infant’s cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear:
But mostly I want to ponder on the nature of exams. See, I believe they are A Good Thing. None of this do a bit here and there through the year then get your qualification at the end. Maybe that is as I like to see how things hang together, and build up the knowledge and apply it to get to Ithaca.
How the chimney-sweeper’s cry
Every blackening church appals,
And the hapless soldier’s sigh
Runs in blood down palace-walls.
No, wait, none of that is what I wanted to say. There was something, I am sure of it. I sit here pondering (again), but a more positive ponder, but still no nearer a conclusion.
But most, through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot’s curse
Blasts the new-born infant’s tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage hearse
Ha! The hidden message is quite obvious, and the other one? Well, perhaps a bit more obscure. Though in context of reading, perhaps not. The truth of an infinite sequence of propositional handshakes.
