Yes, I know, I know, World Poetry Day was a few days ago now, and as you read this it’s probably World Broccoli Day or World Make-Friends-With-A-Unicycling-Girrafe Day, but at the age of 59 and 11/12ths I’m a bit slow on the old unicycle release of calcium from intracellular stores uptake and it took me a while to retrieve this poem I wrote some years ago on the occasion of the confirmation of the existence of the Higgs Boson. So here it is. With apologies to Hilaire Belloc.
Ahem.
Clears throat.
THE BOSON
The Boson is so very small
You cannot make it out at all
Though scientists have money on
Its presence in the Tevatron.
Notwithstanding the concern
Of colleagues working hard at CERN
Who hope the Boson might emerge
Triumphant, from a mighty splurge
of hadrons which, when they collide
Release their secrets, locked inside.
Why all this fuss, I say? Alas!
Without it, and we’d have no mass
We’d float away, like thistledown,
Drifting 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! We cannot be so free.
There is still much uncertainty,
For scientists tell us we must wait
For sigmas to accumulate.
Oh let us never, ever doubt
What nobody is sure about.
It’s OK, I’m going now.
