We pan for chromosomes of gold
Along the twisting streams
Of breedings caused by endless years
Of lustful human dreams.
Biologists insist that from
Such unexpected trysts
Some better folks will come along –
But not without some twists.
The wealth of past millennia
Lies buried in the silt,
Though sometimes all the bits we find
Are nothing more than gilt.
But as researchers start to mine
The gold along its shore,
They’d best take care, or they might breed
Some vicious albacore.
Perhaps it’s best we trust to fate –
It’s worked for us so far.
Attempts to restock nature’s stream
Could turn things quite bizarre.
In any case, the chromosomes
Continue with their work –
Who says they need the tugging of
Some scientific jerk?