The Development of Pharmacogenomics

The Development of Pharmacogenomics

I am a student of Aerospace engineering who's almost an Aerospace engineer. However, at the behest of one belonging to the fairer (notice how they are often very unfair) sex, I have had to write the following verse (it not just bad, you see). Its about the Development of Pharmacogenomics, or rather, my views thereof and is, in typical fashion, titled "The Development of Pharmacogenomics". My knowledge about Pharmacogenomics rivals that of Sohail Tanvir. However, I can proudly say that I can attempt to illustrate it by means of a poem while the latter might just resort to crude means like kicking you in your nuts, at being asked about it. So, The Development of Pharmacogenomics.

That "one man's meat is another's poison"
Is a saying oft heard.
But with this idiom, in the minds of some
A few thoughts thus concurred.

"That which holds true for food might just
Hold true for medicine.
One's cyanide, if by another tried
Might act as Penicillin."

So after designer homes and designer clothes
Designer rugs and designer mugs.
If all goes fine, and as per design
We'll soon have designer drugs.

The need for this I shall question not
For it is beyond all doubt.
I might then sound silly, but should we really
Nature's will openly flout?

The advent of drugs has seen a marked increase
In the types of dreadful germs.
With diseases from birds, pigs and sheep herds
We have still not come to terms.

What might happen, I shudder to think
When a person represents a disease.
That to a person maybe endemic, an entire epidemic
Puts my mind to certain unease.

I know not much, in fact I know naught
And I've argued without any clue.
But the thought does haunt, for I do not want
A disease to be named Bharat Flu.

Perspective

They say all roads lead to Rome.
I think they just lead us home.

One man's gain is another's sacrifice.
You yearn to pass time, and yet time flies.

Another dies if I'm to live.
It's all a matter of perspective.

Of being supreme only he can boast.
Whose perspective matters the most.

Mine is important only at home
All roads, thus, do lead to Rome.

Barrow Wight and the Seven Dwarves

Barrow-wights are wraith-like creatures in J. R. R. Tolkien's world of Middle-earth. Barrow refers to the burial mounds they inhabited and wight is a Middle English word for "living being" or "creature". Barrow wights can suck the life out of anyone close enough and thus can not be killed by melee. Read on....

Long ago in days of yore, deep in the caves of Erebor
There lived dwarves hale and hearty
They loved listening to lore and going to war
And they also loved to party.

With their axes they were warriors fierce
In all battles they'd reign supreme
The phalanx could pierce mighty trolls with spears
They formed a formidable team.

In their axes they took the greatest pride
They had no equal in melee.
But the pleasure of range they were denied
Before archers they would flee.

And now the tale, in earnest does start.
Aye, the dwarves would fight and sing.
But their axes were, for the major part
Far more interesting.

Most axes smoked, gestured and spoke
But seven could even sing.
They were carved from oak and were bespoke
Each fitted with a dwarven ring.

One had been proven, better than Beethoven.
One sang of the universe.
One sang of the glory of Attila the Hun.
And wrote beautiful lyrical verse.

With his songs, one would venom spew
One hummed like happy bees.
One, like very few, loved things that grew
And sang of flowers and trees.

The seventh axe, however, was horribly harsh
His voice had brought down Petra.
Single handedly, at the Concert of the Dead Marsh
He had defeated "The Orc-estra"

On him were carved many ancient runes.
Ne'er was he happy or gay.
All he would do was, in irritating tunes,
Scream "Axe throwers" all day.

One day, to Erebor, the Deceiver came
In search of an elusive ring
He hadn't seen (and wasn't that was a shame?)
The axes that could sing.

Our dwarves seven, he called mighty and bold.
He moved them with deceitful words.
The dwarves he told, "In the forest old
Live not just animals and birds."

That they should go, was his humble request
With their axes and their rings.
Put their skills to test and rid the forest
Of cursed evil things.

Arrangements were made and the farewells said.
And the dwarves readied themselves.
They ate waybread and with a cry they sped
Faster than the nimblest elves.

Though creatures lurked and wild bees swarmed
They were wary of dwarven might.
And the dwarves moved unhindered and unharmed
Till they encountered a barrow wight.

Aye, what they had encountered was a barrow wight
And though they were fine and fit
Our dwarves seven, with all their might
Didn't know what to make of it.

But pride aplenty, had our dwarves seven
They gave a mighty rallying call
And on the scorched earth, under the glaring sun
In unison, met their fall.

Even against their axes and a solitary spear
The bare handed wight was stronger
They were long lived, but it was clear
That the barrow wight was to live longer.

They screamed and bawled, for they were apalled
And when they finally found their feet
They gathered at a spot that was secure and walled
Whence they beat a hasty retreat.

They wore mithril mail and called the men of dale
For it was their last resort
But their throats went dry, their food went stale
The time of the dwarves grew short.

So our dwarves seven, hungry and parched
But unmindful of their plight
Took up their weapons and on they marched
Towards the barrow wight.

They heard a horn and stopped in their tracks
And felt an approaching gale
Down from the sky or from earth's own cracks
Had appeared the men of dale.

Mithril mail they shod, they were strong and broad
Their heights were over six feet
"Have you come to our aid?", and they did nod
And asked for something to eat.

The dwarves' minds raced, up-down they paced
One solemnly shook his head
When on the land that no food ever had graced
They saw apples, ripe and red.

They laid down their bows, quivers and arrows
And disregarding the dwarven scowls
Had their fill and with contorted brows
Started uttering hideous howls.

What had gone wrong, well no one knew
On the ground each one had spread
They writhed in pain and up they threw
And one by one, dropped dead.

So the dwarves were left to face their fate
And they gathered all their might
And on they marched with their glorious gait
Towards the barrow wight.

"Ready your axes dwarves, the wight rests ahoy!"
Bellowed the dwarven bellower.
When a hoarse voice, with a juvenile joy
Shouted twice "Axe thrower!"

The dwarves battled on 'gainst the mighty wight
Who, stronger, by now had grown
They were being overwhelmed by his wighty might
He was taking their lives for his own.

The dwarves were losing, their courage sank
And it sank lower and lower.
When a hoarse voice, bored and blank
Shouted twice, "Axe thrower!"

The guardian of the axe, now incredibly irate
Turned towards the barrow wight.
And with anger, spite and humungous hate
Hurled it with all his might.

The axe smiled broadly as it traced in red
An arc, through the thin air.
It struck the wight and struck him dead
And felled him onto his lair.

36 - 24 - 36

Look ye below - I try my hand at art
I couldn’t deny; the end might be a fart
With this, I proceed to admire women’s curves
Something every despo IITian feels he deserves

Voluptuousness can be a pleasant source of heat
Holding the sausage hostage can feel really sweet
It’s something every man thinks about everyday
Otherwise, rest assured, he’s got to be gay!

God has always played the gender game
But for this, hallowed be thy name
With a waist so titillating and nice
Oh Such beauty! It arrests all eyes

Moving on, I marvel at that round ass
A slick thong looks so amazing on a lass
Young children, old men, all shall deprave
As It can awaken an immortal from his grave

For such grave lewdity, kindly cut me some slack
Using euphemism and nicety in verse, I a tad lack
But look above and you’ll realize what’s inside
Few lines a bit narrow, others slightly wide

The love for curves, I did try to manifest
Truly speaking, in joblessness and zest
Next time, better verse I shall employ
For now, just glance above and enjoy

The Tell Tale Fart of E.A. Poo

This is the tale of the tell tale fart
But attention pay, before I start
This poem is no piece of art
I have disclaimed, for my part
So now for the tale of the tell tale fart.

In Pennsylvania, a young man grew
He was christened Edgar Allan Poo.
He would spend hours inside the loo.
But what he did there, no one knew.

For when one sits in a loo, cooped inside
You expect him to have pooped inside.
Yet this man only whooped and cried.
And stumbled around, stooped in stride.

By some mighty woe he was always harried
Some enormous load 'twas that he carried.
Any questions 'pon that he hastily parried
Nonetheless, he was splendidly married.

'Twas expected that his union with his wife
Would, to some degree, lessen his strife
Yet he grew less fonder of his life.
And slashed his wrist with a rusty knife.

After such an attempt at commiting suicide
One would expect him to have immediately died.
But he lived no matter how hard he tried
Hanging, slashing or even cyanide.

It was a miracle, all doctors averred
Far greater than any of which they'd heard.
Like the horse that flew or the dog that purred
Or the moon landing by a swallow bird.

Years, decades, centuries went by
It rained in Atacama, the Amazon went dry
Man sprouted wings and began to fly.
But our young man, now old, refused to die.

Then disaster struck, one fine day
A sunny, bright one, in the month of May
In multitudes, people, on the ground lay
The world smelled of rotten death and decay.

And on this day, full of darkness and dread
Our young man, now old, was found dead.

The city had died from lack of breath
But a satellite had some how captured his death
The pictures showed that E.A.Poo
After 2 centuries, had visited the loo
And raised his arms in delight and surprise
The rest is left to the reader's surmise.

A Citrus Revelation

The demise of many none do care to grieve
But hark! their mark they do not fail to leave.

Slowly and pensively as I climbed up the stairs
(Glancing at whose floor is more than anyone cares)
Old memories revisited me when I came upon a stain
Where the orange piece (for want of a better word) had lain.

If you had, for the old poem, enough attention spared
And are alive to tell the tale - not mortally despaired,
Though the emotion was intense
There was present continous tense
You were eased by the security contained in eternity
But to discount the constancy of change and celerity,
is wanton temerity.

And I speak now of things as they are in reality
No light or shade of idealism or morality...
In the place of the solitary drupel (for that's the better word)
There lay no solitary drupel, having been moved by man or bird,
Effaced from existence, no more to be seen or heard.

There was present an orange stain that could shame the setting sun,
Lending colour to the battlefield where finality had won,
Speaking clearly the acid truth, that Vanity is Vain
Be you drupe or be you balrog, you shall end an orange stain.

"The" Vogonity

This vouchsafement of a votive vision of old,
is a vow to versify our vitriolic vituperations
and vehement vociferations
of vividly violent views, or of vague volutations --ventings vagrant voluble and verbose,
but never wanting in verve or vigour.

Look not here, visitor, for victors or vanquished, for this is not war -- it's verse.

And before the voodoo of this voraginous verbiage starts looking voulu, I shall revert to the vernacular, and begin by reproducing this colourful manifestation of the heavenly inspiration which coincided with the conception of the grandiose ambition of Vogonity.


Here's some very profound poetry inspired by the sight of a solitary orange "piece" (for want of a better word) lying on the staircase leading down to the h-6 corridor. It's titled

"An ode to the solitary orange "piece" (for want of a better word) lying on the staircase leading down to the h-6 corridor"

There the orange "piece" (for want of a better word) lay
and there it lay
and continued to do so.

there came a dog and sniffed it
and the smell apparently miffed it
for it solemnly just walked away
and walked away
and continued to do so

two poets came in sight of it
one left, one to the right of it
reflected on the plight of it.
one walked right away
one was left there to stay
and thus, there he did stay
and continued to do so

he thought, then, it was time
to speak by means of rhyme
of the orange "piece" (for want of a better word) that lay
on the staircase and to this day
continues to do so...
at the sight of the orange "piece" (for want of a better word)
the poet and his thoughts concurred
and thus he wrote away
(and continues to do so):

   "There the orange "piece" (for want of a better word) lay
    and there it lay
    and continued to do so.

    there came a dog and sniffed it
    and the smell apparently miffed it
    for it solemnly just walked away
    and walked away
    and continued to do so.

    two poets came in sight of it
    one left, one to the right of it
    reflected on the plight of it.
    one walked right away
    one was left there to stay
    and thus, there he did stay
    and continued to do so

    he thought, then, it was time
    to speak by means of rhyme
    of the orange "piece" (for want of a better word) that lay
    on the staircase and to this day
    continues to do so...
    at the sight of the orange "piece" (for want of a better word)
    the poet and his thoughts concurred
    and thus he wrote away
    (and continues to do so):

       "There the orange "piece" (for want of a better word) lay
        and there it lay
        and continued to do so

        there came a dog and sniffed it
        and the smell apparently miffed it
        for it solemnly just walked away
        and walked away
        and continued to do so 

        two poets came in sight of it
        one left, one to the right of it
        reflected on the plight of it.
        one walked right away
        one was left there to stay
        and thus, there he did stay
        and continued to do so

        he thought, then, it was time
        to speak by means of rhyme
        of the orange "piece" (for want of a better word) that lay
        on the staircase. and to this day
        continues to do so...
        at the sight of the orange "piece" (for want of a better word)
        the poet and his thoughts concurred
        and thus he wrote away
        (and continues to do so):

           "There the orange "piece" (for want of a better word) lay
            and there it lay
            and continued to do so

            ..........."""

(If the idea of recursive poetry with 3,5,7,9-lined-stanzas appeals to you a lot, feel free to go back up and re-read. If that doesn't curb the excitement brewing inside you, we accept gifts in the form of pizzas, ice-creams and assorted chips.)