A poem by Alan Storkey
So you believe no God created this,
no great design, but just a happenstance,
not personal, but rather hit or miss,
not even aim, but just a primal dance
of stupid chemicals. Yet even they
need pre-constructing into atom, quark,
from which non-aiming hits, you say,
the universe was made. Shots in the dark,
no guns, no big N "Nature" doing things,
sand with IQ (but not computer chips)
has done it all. The cosmic order springs
from elementary particles with slips.
I can't believe - unless the quarks have phones
and don't pay extra for more distant zones.
