by Nick Gisburne
A thousand scholars tell me what is true,
But one, a dark, disturbed, dissenting voice,
Describes a strange, conflicting doctrine. You.
I listen. Was there any other choice?
Reality and reason, not your friends,
Are banished to the borders of a mind
In which the flame of ignorance defends
Ridiculous deceptions, backward, blind.
You burn with indignation, rancour, rage,
That any other theory could fly,
A relic from a prehistoric age,
Refusing to accept the science. Why?
I see them all, the clues to which you cling,
Convinced the great conspiracies are king.
