The Evolutionists

By Wil C. Fry, Nov. 22, 1989

(Copyright 1989 by Wil C. Fry. All rights reserved.)

The short, fat ‘scientists’, each with a bald head,
they examine the bones of those long dead.
With their beady eyes and chattering ways,
they stare at fossils for endless days.
They assert that a pig’s tooth is really a human bone.
They claim that we’d each be better as a clone.
They fiddle with our genes, trying to better the masses,
while staring out of tunnels with their Coke-bottle glasses.
We listen to them and learn how men
descended from paramecium.
They try to reproduce the effects today,
but the genes won’t change in any way.
When you think you have them trapped in their own logical pen,
they’ll tell you that the laws of science didn’t apply back then.
They say that bacteria soon became fish—
this is something that they can only wish.
And even if the fish washed up on the proverbial sand,
there is no chain of events that would make him a man.
To them, the world is one big blur—
if anything was evolved, they were.
The only reason they believe the evolution façade
is so they don’t have to believe in the true God.

This poem was written in fulfillment of a school assignment in English IV.

Here's the typed document that I submitted:

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