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A long time ago I read all of Shelley’s poems,
He being a scientific romanticist known,
Who plumbed the depths of mystery,
And too Keats and Byron, as eagerly,
They being the romantics of the earthly realm,
Along with Omar Khayyam, the Sultan’s helm,
A romantic scientist who invented algebra,
As well as cherishing all of nature above Allah.

Omar was as Mr. Spock’s logic,
But with the glory of life added to it,
While Shelley was more of Dr. McCoy’s
Excessives of emotional romantic ploys,
But Keats and Byron were more
Of a blend, like Captain Kirk’s sure
And dashing action tempered with reason—
A man for each and every season.

So, I ended up writing poems in the styles
Of Shelley’s and Old Khayyàm’s wiles,
The former being flowingly lyrical—
The latter twistingly epigrammatical,
Short ones at first, very precise,
But also using them as a concise
Way to whittle down entire books
To the few gems and pearls in their nooks.

So now after many educated years,
I still use them to boil down the idears.