According to the New York Times science report

in the beginning, the tohuwabohu

was not just without form and void:

it was a “quagma,”

and moved under the face of the big bang.

But the Physicist said

let there be protons

and electrons and neutrons and more ons.

Mistress Quirkly quacked at Europe Minor, Queerqueg quaked in North

Armorica, (Brekwerkwerk kwoaxed from Past Panthanata,) and three

quarks o’ Finnegan

popped out of the stew; they said

let’s find some glue,

and fished for a while

to build up a pile, of gluons,

then debated what to make of themselves

consistent with the oral instruction

(for writing was unknown, except to French poststructuralists).

One was ambitious, and wanted

acceleration

in machines for billions of dollars. He said

let’s be a proton.

But another just wanted

motion in wires for Westinghouse. She said

no, an electron.

The third was not charged up, just turned on

by Three Mile Island Chernobyl. It said

neutron, then pouted silently

while the others fought, calling each other

names: Earwicker, Molly Bloom, and then growing

more violent: McFarlane, Kirkpatrick.

Noting the impasse, the gluons said

you need our software,

but it doesn’t compute. For protons and neutrons

you three are all wrong

in your quantum numbers; for electrons

He’ll have to write a whole new subroutine.

But listen, we’d like to work with you folks

(a real team effort, no games, right?)

to make a moron.

So they all came together. The result said

nothing,

but saw that it was good.

It took the rest of the week off.

(12/86)                                 

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