Pity the poor Flatlanders,
Squashed flat within the plane,
No height to see, just width and depth;
Their life oh so mundane.

Their shape is that of squares,
And Triangles, and others.
But, woe, a simple line
Forms their sisters and their mothers.

The sides a man possesses,
That's Flatland's main obsession.
For the sides of a man's descendants
Increase in swift succession.

The man of a hundred and three sides,
The world is his to trod upon.
And he rightly views with scorn and pity,
The poor dodecacentagon.

Shocking is the weight
Placed on such small disparities
But truly fear for those poor souls
Who have irregularities.

Indeed, in average life,
Their distinctions aren't so fine.
For to each man, each other man
Resembles just a line.

They look so like each other
As they pass along the streets,
That a man must grope the angles
Of everyone he meets.

But, if the fog is heavy,
And he's not on the slack side,
A gentleman, from sight alone,
Can tell a forehead from a backside.

The women, on the other hand,
All seem to look the same.
And laws of Flatland state
That they shan't have any fame.

But though she may seem harmless,
She must sound her alerts.
Else the lowly woman
May prick her husband where it hurts.

Yea, Flatland is a poor locale,
To that there's no dissentions.
And sad is he who spends his days
In the land of two dimensions.

But, knowing not their strife,
They enjoy it in their way,
And as they speak to one another,
They have been heard to say:

Pity the poor Linelanders,
Their world so long and thin.
And the only place they're going
Is the place where they have been.

The men are simple lines,
The women merely dots.
And all their lives they spend their time
In designated spots.

A speck is all that greets their eyes
When looking either way.
A more varied type of landscape
Is impossible, they say.

Two voices have the men,
A Tenor and a Bass,
And it is these very voices
Which propagate the race.

For it happens in their world
That such waves of sound vibrating
Bring about conception
In their barbarous form of mating.

Yea, Lineland is an awful spot,
To that there's no dissention.
And sad is he who spends his days
In the land of one dimension.

But, knowing not their strife,
They enjoy it in their way,
And as they speak to one another,
They have been heard to say:

Pity the poor Pointlander,
In his world of no size.
No place to go, he sits alone
Thinking himself so wise.

For him, to move's impossible,
And nothing's there to see.
He is all, and all is him,
For all eternity.

Yea, Pointland is a dreadful place,
To that there's no dissentions.
And sad is he who spends his days
In the land of no dimensions.

But, knowing not his strife,
He enjoys it in his way,
And as he mumbles to himself,
He has been heard to say:

Pity the poor Spacelander,
So proud of three dimensions.
He thinks that he is better than I;
A fool with his pretentions.