When I had died and that small analyst, The worm, came in to learn what I was made of, My soul was still afloat there like a mist Among the million dead cells of the brain. To such a debonair materialist @3That@1 hardly seemed a thing to be afraid of, So round he let it drift, while in disdain He bored through flesh and bone to find their gist. When he had finished and my body ran To dust, with no mould more for him to measure, He said, "Dear me, I've not advanced a span! Yet surely atom-cycles should explain The creature: I must try another plan." He did, boring the dust with jaunty pleasure -- And found himself again where he began. |