The Writer’s Mueseum

On the first day,

They had made a sheep

That was identical in every way.

It was a huge genetics leap,

The scientists would say.

DNA! DNA! DNA! they would cry

That’s the key to it all.

More and more things they’d try

To keep the public enthralled.

But it had to be bigger

It had to be new.

And so they tried for a famous figure,

But who?

They threw names into the pot

Who had blood, or bones, or hair?

Who would be worth another shot?

The pickings were surprisingly rare.

Soon it was decided;

A writer, a great.

Through the museum the hair was provided

And placed onto the machine’s plate.

And lo, at the age when the hair was taken,

There stood Sir Walter Scott!

But quickly they realised they were mistaken

Their work had all been for naught.

True they had managed to awake him;

But, his way with words

He had forgot.

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