The ancients put tremendous matters
On oracles and auguries.
When godhood speaks, the priest agrees.
Glib cunning fails when trouble batters.
Calculations have a thousand ways
To err, while chance can cut the odds
To one in ten, or more if gods
Drop hints about our dossiers.
Augurs read events to come
From entrails, bones, and scattered sticks.
Their guesses are arithmetics
For problems reasoning can’t sum.
The idea for this poem came from Montaigne’s essay on prognostication. Agammemon will slip in later.