I Want To Be a Mad Scientist

By Hamish Dee

Once in Ms. Spitfire’s second grade class,

A peculiar event had come to pass.

The kids had the weekend to prepare an essay

Which they’d read aloud on the following school day.

At the usual time, past the board they would walk,

Where, “When I grow up…” had been written in chalk.

At the top of the hour, the minute hand fell.

Then children all moaned at the sound of the bell.

The teacher stood from her desk to halt the commotion,

Like a heavenly prophet bringing calm to the ocean.

She rushed the routine that the day mightn’t drag,

With a “Good morning, class.” and allege to the flag.

A usual start to a usual week;

She turned to the pupils and started to speak.

“You all know the assignment. Who’d like to go first?”

But as with all kinder they must be coerced.

She looked back to front and then called Freckled Fred

Who then sauntered forward and meekly he read,

“I’ll be a missionary in the Sahara.”

He gave a few reasons, then the teacher called Kara.

The snotty, young tomboy took to the floor,

Saying, “I’ll be a soldier and go off to war.”

Next there was Gwen with a feminine waddle;

She batted her eyes and said, “I’ll be a model.”

All wished to be glorious subjects of praise;

All unaware of how are numbered their days.

The teacher’s interest had come to a crawl,

By the time they had come to the last student Paul.

The sound of his name had broken his stare.

Paul patted down the rat’s nest of his hair.

The pale sickly boy rose from his seat,

Taking slow conscious steps with his ungainly feet.

From the front of the class, the world rocked like a boat,

But he summoned his courage and unblocked his throat.

“I applaud all you others giving standing ovation,

But I had in mind quite another vocation.

I won’t go abroad to lead lambs to the slaughter,

And don’t send me to war to become cannon fodder.

I value my life and I would loathe to spoil it,

Like a Narcissus staring through the seat of a toilet.”

So flying in the face of prudence and propriety,

He said, “I’ll study science of the maddest variety.

Taking God’s dull creations, their genes I will splice,

Making two combined animals better by thrice.

Let’s take for instance the foul and the spider;

A chicken has room for just one egg inside her.

And versus the fox it lacks hope of protection,

When security breeches fall under detection.

Now examine what happens once brought together;

An arachnid leaps farther when light as a feather.

Each mother hen could lay one thousand eggs,

And hatched, baby chicks would have long, hairy legs.

Where to the sly fox hens were unwitting prey,

When there’s a skirmish it won’t walk away.

The chickens will leave it both stricken and weak,

With the black widow’s poison on the tip of its beak.

Look at the facts and I think you’ll agree

That my spider chicken’s at least better by three.”

The students all gawked and the teacher was wincing,

So Paul simply thought they need further convincing.

“You might all argue I’m one hopeless dreamer,

Sure as Louis Pasteur disliked non-dairy creamer.

But I assure you I’m a person of vision,

So let’s move to the topic of nuclear fission.

There are those who believe it a rational answer

To level a city and give residents cancer.

Why should we allow some elected mutton

To have full control over one big, red button?

If we are truly a land of the people,

I say our killing power too should be equal.

A means to avoid this nuclear rain,

Insert remote powered bombs at the base of the brain.

Each receives the remote of an anonymous other,

So the life you protect may that of your brother.

There’d be public record of the buttons pressed,

And a subsequent list of all those laid to rest.

Thus, we might realize we’re interconnected,

And the prevailing malice just might be corrected.

That or mankind sees its final demise

Which to the thinkers won’t be a surprise.

Some might accuse me that justice is lacking,

But Death always sends that old fairytale packing.

Still, I read your thoughts from your harrowed expression,

So I’ll change the subject, lest we come to aggression.

One thing that’s sought like a sultanic jewel

Is a type of cheap and renewable fuel.

I’d be as rich as a king if I put in production

A vehicle that runs on bodily function.

Well nothing’s more cheap or efficient than gratis;

I’ll make a heater that runs on your flatus.

Or when it’s summer and you want a cool breeze,

Your car can give one with a modified sneeze.

You signal a turn with the blink of an eye,

And wet the windshield with the tears that you cry.

It won’t go to waste when the motorist pees,

If the expanded urethra also plays MP3s.

The price at the pump will not make you recoil,

When the pump is your heart and the blood is your oil.

We’d greatly reduce the effects of pollution

With unconditional acceptance of my resolution.”

The visage of the class looked the same as before,

But Paul had prepared just a tiny bit more.

“Like me, there are many who think man came from ape,

And see the birth of the church as the product of rape.

With a peripheral look I think you might find

The world isn’t so intelligently designed.”

Just then the class bell gave a stark interruption,

Sparing the young minds from most certain corruption.

They packed up their things and then out the door ran.

It seemed the speech had gone longer than attention did span.

Paul turned to leave too, as time had ordained,

But when he looked up Ms. Spitfire remained.

Where she once seemed as a corpse in a coffin,

Her lips gave a smile and her features did soften.

Seeing her thus, he flattened his brow,

Returned her kind smile and gave a slight bow.

From then on she saw the boy with adoration

Because he’d renewed hope in the next generation.