As far as I know, this literary sub-genre, or sub-literary genre, is new.
A thrifty young thinker named Blaise
Took pains to preserve his pensées,
But ere the fond hoarder
Could set them in order,
He’d thoughtlessly spent all his days!
Pascal, who delights in his cones,
Thinks favor is his who atones,
So he hastes to repent
For his hours ill-spent,
With unmathematical moans.
From the smoothness of conical sections,
Which wholly engrossed his affections,
Pascal drew the moral
That he had a quarrel
With rough-hewn man’s imperfections.
The vacuum that nature abhorred
Persisted in wise men’s accord,
Till Pascal showed their crania
Were cram-full of mania,
And then filled his own with the Lord.
Had Pascal had a son or a daughter,
He’d surely have taught him or taught her
That the laws from the Boss
Come down without loss,
Like pressure transmitted through water.
A Pascalian thinks himself free
To focus on things hard to see.
If his visible dress
Shows a want of finesse,
It isn’t for lack of esprit.
To his sister, who might have been sager,
Pascal so promoted his wager,
That when he was done
He had made her a nun,
And thereby contrived to upstage her.
When Pascal, the ascetic geometer,
Saw a lady who raised his thermometer
With her sheer negligée,
He controlled his pensée,
And only emitted a psalm at her.