Simpson's Paradox & Shaunak Rishi

Incarnating Simpson's paradox, Fatherhood inaugurates so chill a milliad

That, though I became but the feral Bart of my own broken home's Iliad

Yet, for but Brittanically Black, blissfully contented,

By Rishi Sunak redeemed, tho' bestial, demented

Envoi

Charlemagne- Prince!- Politics being a but Rathantar psalm

A Toricelli trumpet, yet, Roland's self-harm.

Note- 

Shaunak Rishi's father, Gritsamada was cursed by Varishta to become like a demented animal for the sin of improper recitation of the Rathantar sama. 

The simple meaning of this type of story is that the 'Senior' does you a favour by putting you to a ghastly type of test so that you transition from 'learning' to 'knowing' so as to arrive at authentic 'being'. 

Nicole Oresme- who might be considered the originator of the 'Toricelli trumpet' or 'Gabriel's horn' paradox- is important for the history of Economics. Essentially, the notion I'm getting at is that, just as a finite volume can accommodate an infinite surface area (by 'the axiom of choice') so too is Roland's not-blowing (which is good for him because he is a true 'kshatriya') and then blowing (coz the Bishop says so) and then blowing again (coz fuck the Mozzies- right?) his 'oliphant', a mimesis of the Trinity of 'Being-Knowing-Doing' where 'Knowing' is 'Learning' based. The point is, there has to be a point where the Learning stops and the Doing commences so there is some worthwhile way of Being. 

This is a 'Scholastic' way of looking at things. It isn't that of Vedanta. Yet, for Iyers, Ramanuja's Trinity of 'Bimba-Pratibimba-Darpan' (Image, pre-image, Mirror) provides a 'Baconian' alternative which, because of multiple realisability or 'Granger causality', need not be linked to interminable 'Learning' at all. The thing is purely an economic trade off and thus pragmatic, utilitarian and- for that reason- must involve a Mimamsa or hermeneutic of 'apoorvata' or novelty- though the gilt wears off that type of turd pretty fucking fast. 

Okay. Fair cop Guv. This is a shit poem composed by a Sixty year old, Curry & Chips, Cockney shithead who knows nothing, has learnt nothing, and is a standing reproach to the thoroughly decent British Hindu community by reason of his bestial conduct and utter mental derangement. Still, that's the reason this is an actual fucking poem- not some slow witted shite Amit fucking Chaudhuri might publish and be praised for.