On The Perfection of Nature

It would roll but not bounce,

Would not support weight like standard,
This is a comedy egg, a yolk joke,
Broken for a calculated omelette,
It's lost its chance for fame,
Slipping down the insulted gullet,
With nothing left but fragments,
And a word in the shell-likes,
Of the record keepers, denying entry,
To their big book of Pi.