Eros Filos
Tim had a chat with one of his best mates,
To whom the best of all works are assigned,
Shakespeare, Beethoven, all of science combined,
Fictitious numbers, all things, he creates,
May we marvel at his covetous plates,
Of the luscious banquets of humankind.
And that our record gives us peace of mind.
And all of these wonders would seem to translate,
To pure imagination: the man, no?
Does the power of nature run through him?
Probs not, ‘cuz here’s what he’d like you to know:
“The power of nature ain’t in me, tim”
“I guess you’re not so cool after all, bro”
“What was I thinking? I must be so dim”
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