The Tilin' o' the Plane
A Scots Lament

By Laurence D. Finston

Copyright (C) 2007, 2008 Laurence D. Finston

Copying is permitted provided this copyright notice is preserved.

In my youth I had three sides,
And the plane I did divide,
Without any hole or gap between;

And when a fourth appeared,
No interstice I feared,
For still I was a-tilin' o' the plane.

But a fifth side then did grow,
Which filled my heart with woe:
I no longer was a-tilin' o' the plane;

A sixth side grew, but brief,
Was my feeling of relief,
Again to be a-tilin' o' the plane.

For a seventh came, alas,
And my fond hopes all did dash,
To ever be a-tilin' o' the plane.

Polygons six, four, and three,
Divide a flatness perfectly,
And thus are called a tilin' o' the plane;

But seven, eight, nine, ten and such,
Have grown too stout to touch,
And they canna be a-tilin' o' the plane.

So I rent my sides in twain,
And then I fit them back again,
Cryin' "Behold! I am a-tilin' o' the plane!"

But my true-love sneered at me,
"Yer irregular," said she,
"And we'll never be a-tilin' o' the plane!"

So I wander lost and lonely,
Through two dimensions only,
Dreamin' ever o' the tilin' o' the plane.

And I fear my pain is chronic,
For no more I'll be Platonic,
And I'll never be a-tilin' o' the plane.

Oh, my grief it is impervious,
Vainly searching for a surface,
Where I could be a-tilin' o' the plane.