I decided to write a poem in iambic pentameter about how much I hate statistics:
There was a time when I thought that I could
Do anything, and I could do it good.
(Ignore that error. I know it should be well.)
But then came one thing 'seemed undoable.
Armed with pencils and erasers plenty.
I took deep breaths until I felt ready.
Eased open the book t'would be my undoing
Withheld the overwhelming urge of booing.
Left to my own devices I'd rather not
Try this at all. Alas, I am now caught
In a web of graphs and numbers so unkind
It is enough to make me lose my mind.
"If two die rolled a fair statistic make..."
My mind wanders already. Why'd I take
This stupid course? I can admit defeat.
When it comes to math I'm already beat.
"Care not!" says I. "I'm an English major!
This is not something about which I care!"
Alas, I'm stuck. G.E. reqs faintly call:
"You must pass or not graduate at all."
"If Train A leaves Point B in a hurried fashion,
How many trains enter the other station?"
It could be that I am a little dense.
But nothing in this book makes any sense.
Substantial book offers can be dealt with in the comments.