Verse 1]My posture is perfect, my dorsal alignmentIs wasted on formatting’s rigid refinementThe Hanging Indent is a cruel apparatusDesigned to dismantle my academic statusMy margins are a field of red-ink butcheryA testament to pedagogical treacheryThe thesis is a beast of many-headednessWhere logic collapses in tectonic pieces. [Chorus]Oh, the bibliographic topography, the scholarly choreographyIs mostly a test of your patience and less of a quest for a grander philosophyWe’re drowning in APA seven, seeking a path into heavenBy placing a comma where mama once told us that only a period should beIt’s a rhythmic and ritual dance for the cynical, climbing the clinical treeTo a cite-able, quite-able, slightly unwriteable, peer-reviewed epiphany. [Verse 2]Reviewer Number Two is a ghost in the queueWho demands that I quote his own monograph, tooA tedious work on the rise of the smirkWhere all of his self-serving theories still lurkHe says that the flow is disjointed and weakHis comments are jagged and sharpened to speakOf malice in burrows of peer-reviewed hateWhere he drinks bitter ink and decides on my fate. [Bridge]Now Smith et al. are a promiscuous crewThey’re cited in Chapter One, Three, and in TwoBut are they the same Smith or a different relation?It requires a deep genealogical excavationUse ibid., use op. cit., use passim, use supraIt sounds like the spell of a dark chupacabraThe Latin is laughing, the Romans are deadBut they’re living rent-free in my aching young headIf I see one more "p." where a "pp." should beI will walk into traffic and finally be free. [Verse 3]The Chicago Manual is thick as a brickAnd just lifting it makes me feel weary and sickIt offers a footnote for every occasionA bottom-page nightmare of constant evasion"See note thirty-four on the previous chapter"I’m screaming inside like a dinosaur-raptorWho’s watching the meteor crash to the earthRegretting the moment and day of his birth. [Chorus]Oh, the bibliographic topography, the scholarly choreographyIs mostly a test of your patience and less of a quest for a grander philosophyWe’re drowning in APA seven, seeking a path into heavenBy placing a comma where mama once told us that only a period should beIt’s a rhythmic and ritual dance for the cynical, climbing the clinical treeTo a cite-able, quite-able, slightly unwriteable, peer-reviewed epiphany. [Outro]The DOI is broken, the link is a lieAn alphanumeric and cold way to dieI’m clicking on "save" with a finger that tremblesWhile my sanity quietly disassemblesMay the font be your guide and the margin be wideIn the middle of the scholarly night. [Coda]Double spaceLeave no traceTitle caseLower caseSubmit.Quit.
