Entropy Dreary
A scattering of snowflakes, each a little dawn
Of pattern frittering itself away
Across the morning air, is scrawled and drawn
By gravity—or some much darker sway
In modern cosmological theory.
The physicists love thinking of a force
In measurements of entropy dreary
Enough to help these scientists endorse
Their negativity, which, of course, they
Dress up with a Hubble view on telly.
Forgive me if I reel and have to say
They’re repellent as Machiavelli.
No, that’s unfair. He teaches only guile.
These moderns say that nothing is worthwhile.