In a topsy-turvy sort of way,
Some with and some wanting a plus b.
Let the British Association fuss;
What are theirs to the feats to be wrought by us?
Shall the earth stand still? Will the round come square?
Must Isaac's book be the nest of a mare?
Ought the moon to be taught by the laws of space
To turn half round without right-about-face?
Our whimsey crotchets will manage it all;
Deep! Deep! posterity will them call!