Poem 44: Clean gene pool

(Usually I select a poetic form to explore throughout the month. This month however I’m going to use various forms each week. The poetic form selected for this week is the French Lai).

Jill was in favour
Of euthanasia
But heck!
It nearly killed her
To put down Hilda
And Becks –
Friends whose behaviour
Showed faults of Nature.
Jill’s next!

Oh like hell you will
I’m not sick, said Jill
Enough!
I’ll swallow no pill
Against my own will –
Hand-cuffed,
Prepared for the kill,
When I am not ill.
Get stuffed!

But no! they all cried
It’s we who decide
What’s cool.
The mole on your side
Acts much as a guide.
No bull!
We say it with pride
There’ll be no cockeyed
Gene pool.

To hear the poem read aloud click HERE.

688. Priscilla makes a baby

Priscilla went to see the genetic physicist. She had already spent hours going through the glossy brochure selecting sperm donors for her proposed baby. It’s not as simple as it seems. In the good old days one would select a football player or a concert pianist or an astronomer to be the father. These days, with genetic engineering, one could select specific genes.

Priscilla had made notes: six foot three, no baldness in the genes, no hairy back, a deep bass voice.

She wanted a competent musician, but not one of those violinist people; nothing namby-pamby; more of a guitarist; they were always popular. And then, she didn’t mind what sport it was provided it wasn’t chess or curling or orienteering or something sissy like that. Rowing would be excellent, or even tennis or mountaineering.

Brain-wise, a good mix between science and the arts would be perfect, as long as one skill didn’t water down the other. A genius was best, but not necessarily a man for all seasons. Speaking of which, no gay genes please. For goodness sake! Oh dear! Goodness me! Her womb wasn’t a charitable organisation.

At last, with the selections made, the genetic physicist’s suggestions argued over, the modifications completed, Priscilla was implanted with one of her own eggs fertilised by… decisions, decisions… donor genes.

Today, her son’s all grown up. He looks remarkably like the genetic physicist and has his mother’s brains.