What Hath God Wrought?

When stars rise high above the lab complex
And nothing's left to chance, left to perplex,
Once every migrant minnow has been tracked
And boiled down to data, printed, stacked—

There still (infernally!) exist attacks
On Mankind's cherished collection of facts,
Accusing it of killing poetry
Reducing Love to A, C, T and G.

But what of delicate intricacies
Laid bare by dedication to disease?
The world's a Rube Goldberg machine, and cheers—
We're fortunate enough to glimpse the gears!

They say that science kills artistic feel.
I say that beauty's forged from studied steel.