The Einstein and the Eddington

This little poem-lyric thing was written by physicist Dr. W. H. Williams of U.C. Berkeley. It is based on Lewis Carroll's lyric "The Walrus and the Carpenter." It has golf and science, so it was basically written for me. (Sir Arthur Eddington was the first astronomer to (seemingly) confirm Einstein's General Relativity and was one of the theories most knowedgable experts and one of its strongest supporters.)

The sun was setting on the links,_The moon looked down serene,_The caddies all had gone to bed,_But still there could be seen_Two players lingering by the trap_That guards the thirteenth green.

The Einstein and the Eddington_Were counting up their score;_The Einstein's card showed ninety-eight_And Eddington's was more._And both lay bunkered in the trap_And both stood there and swore.

I hate to see, the Einstein said;_Such quantities of sand;_Just why they placed a bunker here_I cannot understand._If one could smooth this landscape out,_I think it would be grand.

If seven maids with seven mops_Would sweep the fairway clean_I'm sure that I could make this hole_In less than seventeen._I doubt it, said the Eddington,_Your slice is pretty mean.

Then all the little golf balls came_To see what they were at,_And some of them were tall and thin_And some were short and fat,_A few of them were round and smooth,_But most of them were flat.

The time has come, said Eddington,_To talk of many things:_Of cubes and clocks and meter-sticks_And why a pendulum swings._And how far space is out of plumb,_And whether time has wings.

I learned at school the apple's fall_To gravity was due,_But now you tell me that the cause_Is merely G_mu-nu,_I cannot bring myself to think_That this is really true.

You say that gravitation's force_Is clearly not a pull._That space is mostly emptiness,_While time is nearly full;_And though I hate to doubt your word,_It sounds like a bit of bull.

And space, it has dimensions four,_Instead of only three._The square of the hypotenuse_Ain't what it used to be._It grieves me sore, the things you've done_To plane geometry.

You hold that time is badly warped,_That even light is bent:_I think I get the idea there,_If this is what you meant:_The mail the postman brings today,_Tomorrow will be sent.

If I should go Timbuctoo_With twice the speed of light,_And leave this afternoon at four,_I'd get back home last night._You've got it now, the Einstein said,_That is precisely right.

But if the planet Mercury_In going round the sun,_Never returns to where it was_Until its course is run,_The things we started out to do_Were better not begun.

And if before the past is through,_The future intervenes;_Then what's the use of anything;_Of cabbages or queens?_Pray tell me what's the bally use_Of Presidents and Deans.

The shortest line, Einstein replied,_Is not the one that's straight;_It curves around upon itself,_Much like a figure eight,_And if you go too rapidly_You will arrive too late.

But Easter day is Christmas time_And far away is near,_And two and two is more than four_And over there is here._You may be right, said Eddington,_It seems a trifle queer.

But thank you very, very much,_For troubling to explain;_I hope you will forgive my tears,_My head begins to pain;_I feel the symptoms coming on_Of softening of the brain.