Classic Poem

In my best Boileau always, I will pass
Into the clock-work labyrinths of glass,
Where etherwinds in infra-red timespaces
Impart a sickly pallor to our faces. —
Important as are powerstations, the clock
Is more so. Esto Memor! Sedate tick-tock!
It's my belief the Master-Clock does hold
The death-warrant of the four-faced time-manifold.
Geometry of postulates pretends
To lean on physical clocks for its own ends:
How easy though to snatch from beneath it all
That gimcrack apparatus, cause it to take a fall!
Positivism of Mach undermines in fact
Spacetimers and they get their nastiest smack,
Or will do so, from their own empirical fans —
It is the clocks will wind up natura naturans !
The infinitesimal-interval ds
Is their Achilles' heel, and that I bless —
I here predict their downfall, with the clock's tick
The responsible party along with the metre-stick!
On time-servers of that sort a pox I say,
Frankly I'd have those blow-flies blown away
From the mechanistic carcass, which, when it died,
The Nineteenth Century left us, and that kite
Einstein discouraged from his tricky curving,
That has proved to the highbrow riffraff so unnerving.
After ten years of making Space on earth
Endless as Time (not bludgeoned into birth
With painful fiats, in the natural fashion,
By a Creator in a fit of passion:
But sown as a cell, " creatively", somewhere —
And Evolution , slow but sure, is there!)
After a decade of this temper of thinking
The very flush-box of the world has started stinking!