Poor chap he was, always obsessed
over one and two and three,
always stressing upon Divine
Proportion and perfect Symmetry.
And 'love is calculative',
he always used to say.
Poor chap, he's dead. Now Bang,
he's gone; never lived another day
to see the glorious sunset,
the fire of my glee.
Love is calculative
as five and one is three.
Ballerina With Fins
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mathematics-2/
