The Tale of Doctor Eben

There was a learned Doctor, see,
Who cut up brains most carefully;
He probed and peered, with knife and chart,
And swore the soul was but a part.

But lo! One day he fell asleep—
A coma long, and dark, and deep.
The surgeons gathered round his bed,
And muttered, “Soon the man is dead.”

Yet while his flesh lay slack and cold,
His spirit strode through gates of gold!
It met with Love (enormous, kind),
A truth that baffled human mind.

He came again to tell the tale:
That science may, at times, grow pale;
That life is larger than its laws,
And Love’s the root of all because.

So children, mark this moral true:
The cleverest know not all they do.
For wisdom lives where wonder stays,
Beyond the reach of scalpel’s gaze.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eben_Alexander_(author)

The Poet Who Failed

There once was a fellow, a fumbly young man,
Who flunked every test since his school days began.
He loved words that twisted, he loved rhymes that curled,
But exams always crushed him, oh what a cruel world!

He scribbled and scrawbled, he tapped and he tapped,
But grammar grew tangled, his spelling was zapped.
The teachers all frowned and they scribbled in red,
“His essays are muddles, his poems half-dead!”

Then one rainy day with a zap and a zine,
He stumbled upon a most marvelous machine.
It shimmered and shuddered, it whizzed with a light,
And promised, “Your poems will sparkle! Just write!”

So he pressed all the buttons, he pulled every knob,
And words poured out grandly—by golly, by gob!
Like laureates lofty with wisdom so wide,
He rode on the shoulders where giants reside.

But deep in his tummy a grumble grew loud,
“I’m cheating!” he muttered, “I trick the whole crowd!
These words are not mine, though I love how they sing,
I’m perched on tall shoulders, not growing my wing.”

Still he chuckled and juggled the lines as they came,
Delighting in rhythm, in rhyme, and in fame.
For even a fraud (with a wink and a grin)
Can stumble on magic—and learn from within.

So if you should meet him, don’t scoff or complain,
For the joy of his poems still dances, remains.
And perhaps, just perhaps, with his magical art,
He’ll learn that true poems must bloom from the heart.