With Any Luck
When inferential statistics
Generalizes from the sample
To the population,
Who predicts
That none of these diseases
Will come upon the dwellers
In the elephant garlic?
 
Not I, said the duck.  
   
When the t test and the chi test
Dish up pie charts,
Do they promise sweetened
Rhubarb to the people?
 
Not us, per chance, my chimps.  
   
There are eggs in the pantry
And a calendar on the wall.
The bars across the ceiling
Strain the watchers in the hall.
 
But who will feed
The flocks at pasture
On peppercorns and forecasters?
 
Not I, with any luck.  
   
In the final analysis
By any mode or median,
Lot's wife took it with a grain of salt
And look where it left her!
 
Glean me that book of tables . . .
Make me a sauce of Cains and Abels.
 
Not us, said the reapers.  
Sleepers . . .  
  Copyright © 1989, 2005 by Basil Tuxaxle