They lowered him today,
My scientific friend,
Who gave his life to reasoning
A scientific end.

"The world," he said, "is made of stuff,"
And so he studied "stuff."
That was the whole of it for him;
For him it was enough.

Atoms, ions, molecules,
Mesons, leptons, muons,
Neutrons, quarks, neutrinos,
Protons, bosons, gluons.

No discipline was too arcane.
He mastered every -ology,
And ravened down his proper bane
With perfect curiosity.

In astrophysics, NASA,
In med'cine, JAMA too,
Praised his erudition,
And MENSA, his IQ.

He challenged Werner Heisenberg
In physics...found his calling
In chemistry with theories
Contradicting Linus Pauling.

But science is a changing tale
Of theory, guess, and whim,
And ere he died, new scientists
Were contradicting him.

He ridiculed religion.
He scoffed at poetry.
There'd be no "crossing of the bar"
When he put out to sea.

Emotion, character, and love,
Nostalgia, joy and pain,
Were mere subsets of protein
And synapse in the brain.

His grieving widow shed a tear.
What was his life about?
What comfort? Eulogy? What cheer,
In such perfected doubt?

She wept, "It comes to zero then,
So to live and die,
Like chimney sweepers come to dust?
No!! Life must signify.

"I heard it all these years," she said,
"This scientific 'truthing,'
A tale told by an idiot
Signifying __________ ."