How doth the little neutron bomb
Improve its fission yield,
And pour the waters of its heart
Across the killing field.
How brilliantly it scores the sky,
How neatly fells the thrush,
As if it heard our hopelessness
And tried to beat the rush.
clue:
By 21st century standards Lewis Carroll was not nearly cynical
enough. Here I update his parody of the deadly moralistic verse
by Isaac Watts and have him take care of the depressive Thomas
Hardy’s thrush.