A king named Cartesian sits on a plane
His chamber a point, his sceptre a line
Direction is moot, his town has no signs
He walks home drunk his crown hung in shame
Barren is his throne, his life has no aim
On an infinite walk, with infinite time
But will his queen wait? Will she sit affine?
She’ll polish his crown, keep his hearth aflame.

The math says of course, for that is a fact
Vectors on a plane will return his crown
But his queen is his point, he, her hero
Tearful, she mourns, not sure when he’ll be back.
Mrs. Cartesian resolves, with a frown
Q of N plus one equals zero