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Humdumpty was an analyst, a Cambridge Ph.D.,
A noted bio-atomist, whatever that might  be. 
Indeed, from earliest childhood it was his single aim 
To analyze no matter what might enter his domain. 
He analyzed his father's watch and next the neighbour's cat. 
Ah! Little more was seen or heard of Felix after that. 

Astounding learned pedagogues, hard pressed to keep his pace, 
Humdumpty grew up daily--in knowledge if not grace. 
And then at university his intellectual power 
Decimated Einstein and the works of Schopenhauer. 
With ease that was amazing he romped a Double First, 
And yet, for all his learning, nought quenched his burning thirst. 

Despite the storm, and tumult that marked his inner life, 
Humdumpty found the leisure to woo--and win--a wife. 
He loved her--Oh! so dearly, his idol and his joy! 
Alack! How oft our dearest 'tis we ourselves destroy. 
One day in stormy weather he raised his eyes above, 
And posed himself the riddle: "What constitutes her love?" 

One night--to angels' weeping--the dark thought seized his mind: 
"By scalpel and analysis the answer I shall find." 
Full soon she took a sleeping draught, and when the time was due, 
He set about his gruesome task, inspired by love so true. 
How tenderly, how lovingly, he cut into her heart. 
With what profound emotion he set his spouse apart. 

To isolate that molecule in which all love resides 
He scrutinized each corpuscle, and did much else besides. 
All data was computerized, and ere a while had passed, 
A reasonable hypothesis was imminent at last. 
How tantalizing is the truth, how far--and yet, how near! 
'Twas in the corner of his eye--and then would disappear. 

It dawned at last upon him, his efforts would prove vain, 
Unless he somehow managed to join her up again. 
Of every art that served this end he tried the whole range through. 
He first tried biophysics--and his last resort was glue. 
Alas, alas, Humdumpty! There is a fateful law: 
Some things men set asunder no mortal can restore. 

They did not need a hangman or Madame Guillotine. 
Before another week had passed, he died of bitter spleen. 
Now some say he's in Heaven, and others, he's in Hell. 
I'm not a theologian, it's difficult to tell. 
For sure, he cut his dear wife up, and who would call that right? 
But was it not his quest for truth that brought about his plight?
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