Have a great Holiday!
HOW DO I LURE THEE? LET ME COUNT THE WAYS!
How do I lure thee? 23 the ways!
I lure thee to the depth and breadth and hype
My sales can reach, with feeling out of sight:
Fear the ends of being and ideas grim!
I lure thee to the level of every gene’s
Most coding dire:
by spin and detail-light
I lure not freely, as men strive for right:
I lure thee puerilely, as thee turn to promise:
I lure thee with your passions put to use--
In thy old genes, and thus thy children’s fate.
I lure thee with a lust I scheme as love,
With my lost sense. I lure thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all thy life; and, if genes cause,
I shall but lose thy business after death.
(After Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-61), Sonnet 43)
GRANTS RUSH YOU MONEY, GENTLEMEN
Grants rush you money, Gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay,
For Genes comprise our savior:
Omics have borne this Day!
To save poor souls from Teaching's power,
Which long time were grantless strays,
Which brings tidings of funding and joy--funding and joy!
Oh, tidings of funding and joy!
(From traditional carol God rest ye merry, gentlemen; source unknown)
'OMICS, TADA!
‘Omics, tada! to me it’s been so wonderful
‘Omics, tada! to me it’s been so good.
No trick could be so subtle and unprovable,
‘Omics, tada! For my grants always good!
SAFE CRISPR'S WAY
Now surgeon’s cloak has covered all:
Searing the brain with traits so fell
Forget now the pledge we made in May
We were to win in safe CRISPR’s Way.
Oh what made allure go astray:
We were to mend it on CRISPR's Day
Now the red blood has crossed our stars
Robbed our feeling of “Hip!”s and “Hurrah!”s
Let not your law turn wintery too
Icy as the seasons do
Now all the august b’liefs are shred
High hope's asleep in misled bed
Truth’s cold winds have blown my hypes away
And left me forlorn on sad CRISPR’s Day
Forget now the pledge we made in May
We were to win in safe CRISPR’s Way.
Oh what made allure go astray:
We were to mend it on CRISPR's Day
Now the red blood has crossed our stars
Robbed our feeling of “Hip!”s and “Hurrah!”s
Let not your law turn wintery too
Icy as the seasons do
Now all the august b’liefs are shred
High hope's asleep in misled bed
Truth’s cold winds have blown my hypes away
And left me forlorn on sad CRISPR’s Day
(Modified from: see Amazing Blondel Evensong album, St Crispin's Day)
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