Love At First Sight... On Separate Trains

I have to say, as a hopeless romantic, that this is my favorite BBC story in, perhaps, forever.

It's the stuff of fairytales and songs that sell millions of copies around the world and make you an international singing star, if you're James Blunt.

As almost anyone with ears and a radio in 2005 would know, he saw a woman's face in a crowded place and he didn't know what to do. Should have put an appeal in Lovestruck.

The dating column in the Londonpaper, a free evening newspaper distributed across London, is hugely popular with commuters. It tries to match those whose eyes met across the bus, tube or train carriage and share one of those "moments" Blunt sings about.

Sadly, the paper appears to be going under, as of Friday, losing a competition with another free paper. But the article notes that there are other sites geared toward facilitating meetings between these "ships passing in the night" sorts of encounters.

More, the article explores the notion of that instant, the moment when eyes meet, pulses race, imaginations run wild...

But are these "moments" real or is it all in our heads? Attraction can be that instant, in fact human beings are wired up that way, says Professor Adrian Furnham, co-author of The Psychology of Physical Attraction.

"We do pick things up very quickly - someone's scent or a look that lasts a second longer than normal. Men in particular are wired up this way," he says.

Not terribly surprising there, from my point of view. Oh, wait, there's more:

"The interesting thing is that people believe the feeling is reciprocated, that something has been shared and that isn't always the case. Even if it is mutual it's not about romance, it's about lust. Humans are wired up to mate, not be romantic."

Spoilsport. (Ok, as a serious parenthetical in the middle of a lighthearted post, I have witnessed men who thought their feelings reciprocated. They thought they were in love; technically, in this case, due to differences in positional power, it was sexual harassment. Men, please do not assume she feels the same way. Ask. And listen.... ok, back to the lighthearted post:)

I have felt this, many times. When I met Cuttlespouse, I fell in love roughly .0001 seconds after seeing her for the first time. It took her a bit longer.

In instances where it is clearly an impossibility, the feeling is still inescapably wonderful; there is a fruit market in Athens that is indelibly etched in my memory simply for two moments. Going up the street, I chanced to look in the store and met her eyes. Going back down the street several hours later, the same. As the BBC story goes, this was one of those glances that lasted a little longer than usual, and that is all it takes. It was magical. Perhaps all the more magical because it can never be sullied by the harsh treatment of reality--in truth, she may have been looking past me toward someone else. But not in my memory.

Of course, the BBC includes a successful meeting in their writeup; the story would be just to horrible without it. But hey, those one-in-a-million success stories are what keep us going. For the Cuttlespouse and I, going for 25 years so far.

The verse is fictional--I started it in third person, but it just worked better in first.

I saw her—just a fleeting glance—
Amidst the milling crowd;
I thought she had to notice me,
My heart, it beat so loud.

I caught her eye, and kept my gaze,
As witnesses attest,
But I was in the eastbound queue
And she was in the west.

I very nearly missed my train
To keep her in my sight.
An angel, even in the glare
Of cold fluorescent light

Transformed I was; forevermore
I’d live a life possessed;
For I was on the eastbound train
And she was on the west.

My sadness grew with every mile
A dull and aching pain
I’d seen my heart’s companion, whom
I’d never see again.

My heart, I thought, would break apart
In pieces in my chest
For I was on the eastbound train
And she was on the west.

A week, then two, a month and more
I watched to see her face
Although I witnessed thousands there,
Of her there was no trace.

I loved, I knew, the perfect heart
Inside her perfect breast,
But I was on the eastbound train
And she was on the west.

It seemed a lifetime that I sought
The one whom I desired,
While she remained invisible
As if the gods conspired.

And if the gods denied me love,
The gods I would contest
Though I was on the eastbound train
And she was on the west.

And then, one day, a Lovestruck ad:
“The day we almost met”
The time, the place, the date, the face
I never will forget.

For weeks she had been looking,
But it’s just as you have guessed:
If she looked on the eastbound train,
That day I’d search the west.

We met, of course, and fell in love;
Now constantly explain
Just how it was we first met eyes
While riding separate trains.

And none could be so happy, no,
And none have been so blessed,
We sometimes take the eastbound train
And sometimes take the west.

Winston The Pigeon

Carrier pigeons are diligent workers,
And some have been honored as heroes!
But, sadly, technology changed their careers,
With the messages, now, ones and zeroes.

Information now moves over fibers and wires,
At the speed (so they tell me) of light;
And people accustomed to speed such as this
Aren’t impressed by a pigeon in flight.

But intertubes clog, and cables will jam,
And data gets stuck on its way;
Uploading a file takes forever, it seems,
With the fastest computers today.

A firm down in Durban, South Africa, thought
That their ADSL seemed too slow.
Would a pigeon be faster? They planned out a test
So the firm could empirically know.

Thus, Winston the Pigeon was all loaded up,
Four gigs on a flash memory stick,
From Howick to Durban, about sixty miles,
His job was to get it there quick.

They started the clock when they opened the cage,
And a regular upload as well—
Would bird or technology first cross the line?
The experiment, surely, would tell.

Winston the Pigeon first circled the square,
Then was off at full speed for the coast!
In sixty-eight minutes, brave Winston was there
But of course, he was not one to boast.

In about one more hour, the data were loaded,
It looked as if Winston had won!
But wait—check the status of ADSL,
And they found…only four percent done!

Now Winston the Pigeon is over the moon;
He’s faster than broadband, no less!
But technology marches; the internet, now
Must compete with the Pony Express!



(second link--BBC coverage--includes video of the race!)

Newspapers Are Born To Exaggerate

It seems these things come in waves. This time, it is the Times Online overreaching the consequences of some recent neuroscience finding, presenting it in a splashy way, and misrepresenting pretty much whatever they need to in order to fit the message in the simple headline. "We are born to believe in God", says the paper this time, and lists a number of researchers (at least one of whom has complained about his depiction) whose work is shoehorned into the "hardwired belief" message. (I have not read all of them, but certainly Dawkins, Hood, and Persinger, and while I can see the germ of what the present authors saw, I must say they have read them differently than I did.)

There is, in my view, a considerably simpler explanation that still fits. (I am reminded, with tremendous feelings of inadequacy, of Douglas Adams' description of humans as fundamentally tool-makers, inventing a god who, like them, is a creator. I am taking a different track, viewing us as fundamentally social creatures, even before we are tool-makers.) We are social creatures. As such, it has behooved us to use certain social strategies, which have apparently served us well. To wit, we are easily influenced by others. We are, unsurprisingly, influenced by the social power of the majority (see Asch), and of course by the positional power of authorities (see Milgram). This is not bad nor good, this is simply who and what we are. That there are areas of the brain associated with obeying (perhaps even worshipping or feeling awe in the presence of) others is no surprise whatsoever. I wonder if those same areas might light up, for some people, in the presence of an adored movie star, singer, or politician. (Would this be evidence that Sophia Loren is God? A much better thought than the idea of scanning my in-laws' brains while they listen to O'Reilly.) Religion would be, in this model, simply a successful hijacking of this genetic predisposition toward social living. No pre-wiring for belief in god (and did you notice the capital letter? Are we pre-wired for a particular religion?), but rather a predisposition toward particular behaviors that facilitate social living.

In other words...

The Times Online has just opined
It seems as if we are designed,
When growing up, to seek and find
Some evidence for God.
(Of course, the authors whom they quote,
Like Hood and Dawkins, don't promote
This view at all, so one may note
The Times is acting odd.)

Such explanations soon run thin--
It seems to me that what's built in
For social humans and their kin
And each religious pilgrim
Is deference to authority,
A bow to the majority
(Just look to a sorority,
Or shocking Stanley Milgram).

Communal lifestyle surely shapes
Our genes, and so, as social apes
Such strategies have served in scrapes,
Thus following's selected.
The Times is also well-controlled
By genes that fit our social mold--
Reporting only what they're told
By someone well-respected!

A Modern Abraham-Isaac Story

PZ reports, and Greg laden reports, and PalMD reports, and of course, the AP reports, that the Father who tortured his daughter to death by substituting prayer for insulin. We can be fairly certain that she died horribly and painfully. As PalMD writes:

Death by diabetic ketoacidosis is not pretty. The symptoms start with extreme thirst and frequent urination. Then the person develops headaches, abdominal pain, and vomiting. Eventually, they become confused and lethargic, then lapse into a coma before dying.

And it is not like this was an unwitnessed event; the girl was surrounded by witnesses. The AP:

Prosecutors contended he should have rushed the girl to a hospital because she couldn't walk, talk, eat or drink. Instead, Madeline died on the floor of the family's rural Weston home as people surrounded her and prayed. Someone called 911 when she stopped breathing.

My son has diabetes. Before we had a diagnosis (at age 18), we knew he was thirsty, and that despite working out, he kept losing weight (we did not realize how much, though, as he wore jeans and sweatshirts at the time). He developed some sores in his mouth that would not go away, and was in a terrible mood. Teenaged boys are not usually eager to go visit a doctor, so we were concerned when he wanted to go. Of course, when we found the diagnosis, there was tremendous relief and tremendous guilt; in hindsight, we should have seen it weeks earlier!

I cannot imagine what sort of person could watch his daughter progress much further along that path than my son did, and not do whatever possible to save her. The phrase "move heaven and earth" comes to mind; if I thought God wanted my son to die, damn right I will defy God! But Dale Neumann is more devout than I am. He has a dead daughter to prove it.

Back when we knew the Old Testament God
With His fondness for family slaughter,
We wouldn't think twice about sticking a knife
In a brother, a son, or a daughter.
It's nice that a father can still show his love
For a God that compels adoration
By torturing slowly, then putting to death
His own son, through acute dehydration.
No father so loved, not his son, but his God,
With his thoughts not on Earth, but above.
The proof is a son who lies tortured to death--
Whoever could doubt, God is Love?


(I note, only after posting, that I clearly substituted my son for his daughter in my verse. I suspect that most parents, reading her story, will substitute their own children.)

The Ballad of Sally Kern

Via Dispatches From the Culture Wars, a video making the rounds. Oklahoma legislator Sally Kern missed the politician's lesson about the combination of microphones and internet, and unwisely revealed her true feelings to a small gathering. If you have not seen it yet, it is worth viewing:



Sweet, isn't she, to be so concerned for us? Anyway, I wrote her a little poem. I must point out, in case she wants to try to sue me later, that the words I have put into her mouth are not hers. At least, not from this particular speech. It is poetic license, hyperbole, and a very low Godwin number.

A legislator, Sally Kern,
Was simply voicing her concern,
But Sally Kern was unaware,
Or if she knew, she did not care,
That someone had a microphone
So Sally Kern was not alone.
“Oh, I’m not anti-gay” said Sally,
To the fifty-person rally;
“But there are things you have to learn”
And who will teach us? Sally Kern.
Sally Kern, she knows the answer—
Knows how gays are like a cancer,
Knows they’re worse than terrorists
If Sally Kern can keep the lists.
So Sally Kern must raise her voice
Against unhealthy lifestyle choice;
The cost of life against God’s Word
Is clear, the people gathered heard:
Disease and death, and then you burn
In Hell, or so says Sally Kern.
Then Sally Kern, in pure effrontery,
Tells us gays will harm our country:
If we embrace these sinful ways,
Says Sally Kern, allowing gays
To join the City Council ranks
Or work in schools, or stores, or banks,
Our country would be tempting fate,
And all too soon would be too late.
Now, such a stance may seem too stern
But heed the words of Sally Kern;
If we let gays live right among us,
Soon, like mold, or creeping fungus,
Even straights will be infected—
Sally Kern wants us protected.
The path to safety is God’s Grace:
We must protect the human race.
Sally Kern just wants us purer…
Right. Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Fuhrer.

Wonderful News! A Potential Cure For Diabetes!

A news release from Novocell today
Reports a major step to find a cure
For diabetes. They have found a way,
From embryonic stem cells, to make pure
And uncontaminated strains, in mice,
Of insulin-producing pancreas cells.
For human diabetics, this is nice
Of course, because this news potentially spells
The end to constant testing and injections,
Daily hassles, both the large and small,
Relief from greater risks of bad infections,
And generally a better life for all.
It’s time to end the ethical debate;
There’s too much cost in making people wait.

That's right--The news outlets are all reporting on Novocell's new discovery.

WASHINGTON (Reuters) - Human stem cells transformed into nearly normal insulin-producing cells when implanted into mice, possibly offering a way to treat diabetes long-term, researchers at a U.S. company reported on Wednesday.

The researchers used human embryonic stem cells -- the most powerful but the most controversial source of stem cells.

Writing in the journal Nature Biotechnology, the team at San Diego, California-based Novocell Inc said their work showed that human embryonic stem cells might fulfill the promise of treating or perhaps even curing diabetes.

"Our data provide the first compelling evidence that human embryonic stem cells can serve as a renewable source of functional insulin-producing cells for diabetes cell replacement therapies," said Emmanuel Baetge, chief scientific officer of Novocell.

The actual report is in the journal Nature Biotechnology (abstract here)

Oh... some of you know already... my son has Type 1 Diabetes. So yeah, I'm happy.



(just noticed....I beat the science blogs to this, and I did it in verse!)

Stop The Presses!

Randall tells me, as does "The Loom" over on science blogs, that there is a wonderful article about me in the New York Times! Ok, it's not about me. It is, however, about some other cuttlefish--some at the Woods Hole lab, some in Australia, but all wonderful cuttlefish, the most remarkable quick-change artists in the world! The Times site also has video of some of the experiments that Dr. Hanlon has been performing with these adorable creatures.

The New York Times, I rather think,
Could hardly be a waste of ink;
It’s good to see a thoughtful story,
Showing us in all our glory!
A walking (swimming) work of art,
The skin we wear is really smart!
Chameleons can only wish
To emulate the cuttlefish;
A master of the craft indeed,
With changing hues at lightning speed,
Resulting in a really slick
Near-magic disappearing trick!
Now Dr. Hanlon can surmise
A simple trick to our disguise:
Instead of thousands, only three
Designs account for what you see,
To help us disappear from view;
The doctor says here’s what we do:
We keep our color uniform,
When solid backgrounds are the norm;
If busy patterns come, we will
Turn mottled—that will fill the bill;
Our outlines disappear from sight
With our disruptive dark and light.
Discovering this rule of threes
Is one of many mysteries;
But many more are still unknown
To those who lack a cuttlebone.



This picture shows the three basic skin patterns: from left, Uniform, Mottled, and Disruptive. 

Picture credit: Roger Hanlon... I grabbed it from The Loom.

Now, That's A Lot Of Bull!

"Indian brokers at the Bombay Stock Exchange are calling on the authorities to bring in religious experts to change the direction of a bronze bull statue.

They say the posterior of the bull, placed at the footsteps of the exchange building, points towards the traders which makes it inauspicious." Source.


Our observations of the world
We may distill and write as "laws"
These shape our understanding, thus
We see effects, and look for cause.

The tools of science guide our search:
We vary, systematically,
Alleged cause--does output change?
Or simply sit there statically?

We put our theories to the test
And really try to prove them wrong.
(Unless we do, how can we know
An explanation's weak or strong?)

The power of coincidence
To make us see what isn't real
Is just one thing we're up against,
As stories in the news reveal:

On January 12th this year,
A statue of a bull was placed
Outside the Bombay Stock Exchange--
The steps, behind; the street, it faced.

The sculpture is a work of art
Expressing movement, form, and mass,
But brokers in the building want
To relocate the statue's ass.

The bull's hind end is magic, see,
And has the strange ability
To influence the world, and cause
The market's volatility!

That's right--it's not the sub-prime stuff,
It's not the housing market bubble,
But a bronze bull's butt in Old Bombay
That must have caused the market's trouble.

Don't fret about your stocks and bonds
Investments now are clearly sound;
Just get the Mumbai analysts
To turn their magic bull around.

And once you do, please be assured,
The market will again be steady,
And we can deal with other things--
There's far, far too much bull already.

Matters Of The Heart (... in a jar)

It's all over the news--researchers at the University of Minnesota have "created a beating heart in the laboratory". Basically, they used the protein fiber matrix from one heart, stripped of muscle cells, as a scaffold upon which to grow a new heart, using a solution of cells from another rat. Yeah. I know, all this talk about hearts is so romantic. So, in a bit of a reversal from my previous position, I return to the romantic view of the heart as the foundation of love, with a trio of little verses inspired by the heart in the jar. I can see it now... the picture above, on the front of the Hallmark card, with one of the following verses inside...


I'm new at this game,

And I don't know your name,

But I love you, whoever you are;

My heart may be true

But it's also brand new

I grew it myself, in a jar!

I can feel my heart grow,

So I love you, you know, 

And not like a cousin or brother;

I will give you my heart--

Every bit, every part;

If you break it, I'll grow me another.



My heart is yours; it’s in a jar
That sits upon your shelf;
It’s happy being where you are
And not all by itself.
You asked me for a souvenir
To keep while we’re apart;
I thought a bit, and it was clear—
It had to be my heart.
And now, although my heart may soar,
It is no longer mine;
A message that forevermore
I’ll be your valentine.



A rat cadaver’s donor heart
Is stripped of every cell
The protein fiber matrix left
Looks like a ghostly shell;
This matrix, in a sterile flask,
Is bathed in rat-heart goo
With both adult and baby cells,
And starts to grow anew.
In only days, the growing heart
May beat, or merely twitch,
Then work, at roughly two percent…

Like yours, you heartless bitch.

Tuber magnatum Pico

I’d like to report, for the gluttons among us,
A story about a remarkable fungus;
An auction today caused a giant kerfuffle
And set a new record—the costliest truffle.
A truffle dog found it near Pisa last week
(although hunting with pigs is another technique);
Weighing 1.5 kilos (or 3.3 pounds),
It’s the largest discovered by pigs or by hounds.
An artist was bidding, and so was a Sheik
But neither had what it would finally take;
The winner, from Macau, is named Stanley Ho—
He owns a casino; I guess he has dough.
A third of a million is what he will pay
For the privilege of taking that truffle today
A price unexpected, though truffles are rarities,
But proceeds, today, were donated to charities.
The price for this truffle, reporters were told
Is nine times (by weight) more expensive than gold!
So if your back yard contains Tuber magnatum,
It’s time to call Christie’s, and tell them you’ve got ‘em.

Thousands protest Teacher's 15-day sentence

But perhaps not for the reasons you might suspect.

The continuing saga of Gillian Gibbons
(I predict, in a day, they’ll have magnetic ribbons
To “show your support for the naming of bears”)
Has reached a new peak—don’t be caught unawares.
When the teacher was sentenced to prison this week
Some protesters gathered in Khartoum to speak;
Thought I, “they must see that this sentence is wrong,
And they’re all coming out, in a mass, thousands strong,
To rail at an outcome they see as too strict,
And move that the Judge, right away, interdict!
But no. I was wrong. All the protesting masses
Had gathered together to prove themselves asses;
A fifteen day sentence? Why, that isn’t squat—
These protesters demand that Ms. Gibbons be shot!
They demand execution by firing squad;
It’s the right thing to do, and the True Will Of God.

sigh

Islam is, they say, a religion of peace;
Our attacks on their honor are wrong, and should cease.
To probe this mob’s sanity surely is slander,
We all must admit, if we’re speaking with candor.
To call them extremists, or radical nuts,
Is simply insulting—no ifs, ands, or buts.
It seems when these rioters look in the mirror
They only see goodness—it couldn’t be clearer.
To call for the death of this teacher is brave;
It’s the way that the Prophet, himself, would behave.
So you see, this is peaceful, they calmly explain.
And it makes perfect sense.*


*if you’re bat-shit insane.

Losing the Name Game

I mentioned the name game in a previous post. The bad news, of course, is that Gillian Gibbons played the Name Game... and lost. She has been sentenced to 15 days in jail. And this is considered lenient--she could have received 40 lashes. Yes, 40 lashes. Yes, in 2007.

Now, I'm not the sort that bashes
a religion "just because".
But the sentence "Forty Lashes"
Gives the average person pause.

When a teacher names a Teddy
Bear "Muhammad", and is jailed,
Then the Cuttlefish stands ready
To declare "Your system's failed."

If the naming of a Teddy Bear
Means this (or any) length
Of prison term, just be aware:
I doubt Muhammad's strength.

If Allah's Greatest Prophet
Finds this teacher in the wrong,
We're justified to scoff at
Him--in poetry or song.

Muhammad's weakness is a flaw--
Sudan cannot be trusted--
I don't feel worship, trust, or awe,
I simply feel disgusted.

They had the chance to do it right
To let this teacher go;
From where I sit, Sudan tonight
Is lowest of the low.

My little voice will not be heard
They'll stick with what they're doing;
The rules have changed, though--mark my word--
The whole world, now, is viewing.

The Name Game

Ok, maybe you want to be a bit more careful when you are naming your stuffed animals. I'm sure you have heard by this point about Gillian Gibbons, the British teacher who was arrested after her class voted to name their teddy bear Muhammad.

BBC News is discussing the rules about what can and cannot be named after whom.

The issue has been a vexed one for Muslims through the ages. Some believe that the name can only be given to boys - to give it to an object is idolatry. Others say that pets and toys can bear the name.

...

Dilwar Hussain, of the Islamic Foundation, has no problem with a teddy bear called Muhammad. For some years, the Islamic Society sold a soft toy made for British Muslim children named Adam the Prayer Bear. "Adam is also the name of a Prophet."

They named their bear Muhammad,
And their teacher was arrested;
Religious views around the world
Are sorely being tested.

It's cool to name a pit-bull
After Odin, Zeus, or Thor;
A fuzzy little kitten
Aphrodite--and what's more,

If you search the pets in lands
From Argentina to Moldova
I suspect you'll find a turtle
That's called Yahweh or Jehovah.

An octopus named Kali?
I'm sure someone's been enticed;
And the lizard called the Basilisk
Is nicknamed Jesus Christ.

There is one that's so ubiquitous
It's overlooked--how odd.
Imaginary friends, across
The planet, are called "God".

Life's a Bitch (and then you marry one)

From the BBC, a story about a man's marriage to a female dog. (There is a brief video of the ceremony, too.)

An Indian man has "married" a female dog, hoping the move will help atone for stoning two other dogs to death.
P Selvakumar, 33, said he had been cursed since the killings, suffering paralysis and a loss of hearing.

The wedding took place at a Hindu temple in Tamil Nadu state. The "bride" wore an orange sari with a flower garland and was fed a bun to celebrate.

Superstitious people in rural India sometimes organise weddings to animals in the hope of warding off curses.

I offer the happy couple a toast:

Though it's baseless superstition that has led to your position,
I sincerely hope the two of you are happy as can be.
Yes, the way is sometimes stony on the path of matrimony
You consulted an astrologer--how dare I disagree?

No I will not choose to quibble--let your bride wolf down her kibble
With the absolute support of all your family and friends.
And I hope you're feeling better, and that every time you pet her
You'll remember why you did this--you are making your amends.

I wish multitudes of smiles, in both Man and Doggy styles
Let the others wag their tongues--the two of you can wag your tails.
It was beautiful, not kitschy, though the bride was rather bitchy
In a world of mass conformity, it's nice when love prevails.

Kitzmiller v. Dover

I am writing this while watching, so I apologize for the incompleteness of my verse. It cannot, within the timeframe I would like, adequately address this wonderful program. Full Disclosure: I watched the trial as it progresseed, and read the transcripts as soon as they were made available; my verse here cannot possibly be the product of tonight's show and nothing else.

I am, of course, speaking of today's NOVA program about the Kitzmiller v. Dover "Panda Trial". NOVA's program is very well done. Nobody is belittled, nobody is made fun of...but nobody is let off the hook. Kudos to PBS for this program.

It's not a polished verse, but anyway...


Though the trial is two years over, we once more revisit Dover
Where I.D., no more in clover, gets to hang its head in shame.
They all know about Miranda rights, have read their propaganda,
Largely thanks to them, the “Panda Trial” has since become its name

The attempted execution of the thought of evolution—
Well, good thing the constitution has a First Amendment Clause
No establishing religion as state-sponsored—not a smidgen,
But creationists’ clay pigeon was flung up to test the laws.

Wait—“creationist”? Let’s edit, and forget we ever said it
From now on, no God—we’ll credit some “intelligent design”.
Take the book, and cut and paste, look all innocent and chaste,
If we’re properly two-faced, then everything will turn out fine.

In a science education, by the laws of our great nation
There’s no room to teach creation, so that isn’t what they tried;
I.D. theory’s new position is a fossil in transition—
No God there, by definition (well, there is, but it’s denied).

Evolution’s only theory—wait right there; I know you’re leery,
But although you may grow weary, there’s a point I have to make:
Theory, see, in terms of science, means remarkable compliance
With the evidence; reliance on which isn’t a mistake.

See, Your Honor, see us pledging that we’re telling truth, not hedging,
Doctor Forrest says we’re wedging, but she’s biased, don’t you know?
But the trails of cut-and-pasting are quite clear. Now time’s a-wasting
And that bitterness you’re tasting? That’s the taste of “time to go”.

When Buckingham requested science texts that had been tested
And were legal, one suggested text was “Pandas”, so it seems.
The Thomas More Law Center had decided they would enter
(Both as lawyer and as mentor) to the district of their dreams.

There’s no question that “Kitzmiller versus Dover” was a thriller
When a witness who’s the pillar of the church once took the stand,
Testimony he provided, well, Judge Jones himself decided
Was much more than just one-sided, but a lie that he had planned

The bacterial flagellum—irreducible? Yes! (Well, um,
Close enough that we can tell ‘em that it must have been designed.)
If one protein is subtracted, function surely is impacted
Yes, the battle is protracted, but God’s fate is intertwined!

Many lies had been related, both explicit and unstated;
In his comments, Jones berated the defendants for their acts.
For religion to be winning, if it took a little spinning
Can you really say it’s sinning if you simply change the facts?

…and the fall-out? I suppose, at least it didn’t come to blows,
And the trial did expose a very real and potent threat;
When it suits their own desires, the religious can be liars
When it comes to setting fires, that is one we can’t forget.