Truth sat around, undated,
A million years ago;
Sat and yawned and waited
To be appreciated;
Offered the facts and waited,
Waited for us to know.

But we filled our minds with tradition
From the days of our savage youth;
We worshipped in superstition,
And murdered the brain's ambition
That questioned our superstition —
What did we care for Truth?

And still we sit here contented,
Sure that the first is last;
So far as it can be prevented
We oppose the unprecedented,
All progress that can be prevented
We prevent, preferring the past.

But Truth is not in a hurry,
Truth does not seem to care
She does not grieve nor worry
At our dullness sloth or flurry,
She does not have to worry —
Just keeps on being there.