(with apologies to Hilaire Belloc.)
The Boson is so very small
You cannot make it out at all,
Though physicists have money on
Its presence in the Tevatron.
Notwithstanding the concern
Of colleagues beavering at CERN
All hoping that it might emerge
Triumphant from a mighty splurge
Of hadrons which, when they collide
Reveal their secrets, locked inside.
Why all this fuss, I say? Alas!
Without it we can have no mass.
No Higgs, and we’d be thistledown
Floating high above the ground.
The ground itself would fly away
And nothing much would deign to stay
Attracted to its bounden mate.
We’d be in such a sorry state!
But hold! One cannot be so free.
There is still much uncertainty.
For science tells us we must wait
for sigmas to accumulate.
Oh! let us never, never doubt
What nobody is sure about!
Applause.
Thank you. And in other news…
http://youtu.be/Hqxg5WIFAdQ
(With apologies to Cromercrox)
The theory says we can’t be here
unless a bosun comes up clear.
If we’re not here though till it’s found,
then we can’t look, and so are bound
to ponder for infinity
to be or not, or not maybe.
But lo, the hunter of the east has caught the bosun in a noose of light
and all this poetry becomes a load of – quite
wasted words. – Yet still the potter thumps his clay
and lives to write another day.
Ho hum.
Look, it’s a boson, not a bosun.
But it still rhymes – do you want spelling as well as poetry?
or
What – have they found a boson as well?
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