Empiricism, composed in a rage directed at David Hume upon the bright morning of 14 February, 2011 just before Metaphysics.

I close my eyes, and open them again.

My mind moves fast, I think I am insane;

My brain is full of questions here and now

Of who, of why, of where, of when, of how.

My head doth spin like a small yellow top,

But try s’I might, I cannot make it stop.

The earth around the sun does spin and fly,

But why? And how? Gravity makes me cry.

“Self evident,” they say to me as if

My wonder is a short and shallow cliff.

Science can see, but art is childish,

So come with me, and see your father, fish!

I laugh, I cry, my humours have a hold

Upon my mind, and leave my body cold;

Cold as a fish who may my father be,

My tired mind groans, “Impossibility,”

And sullen slink away to ask a sign,

But finding none, I listen to them whine.

By all that is (I mean all that exists)

I curse your names, you vile empiricists.