Speak not of proof,
tell me not your base of data,
rhythm of algo,
expose of ponentials,
count your toes, touch your nose,
spare me predictable formula.
Let me hear your poetry,
sing your song of science,
persuade me without facts,
thrill me.
Mom on deck
Call for Mom.
She’s needed on deck;
no one else will do.
Who could possibly replace her?
Santa Claus or God?



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