The Man with the Problem

There once was a house upon that hill,
The one that's thick with rot.
There once was a man who lived in that house
Who wasted his days in thought.

There was a problem he couldn't solve,
No matter how hard he tried.
He planned on solving that one conundrum
If it took him until he died.

He didn't eat, he hardly slept,
His house was stacked with books and notes.
All he talked about was that problem,
And it was the subject of all he wrote.

Until one day, it came to him,
Like a light bulb being lit.
So tremendous, the power of this revelation
That he was sucked right into it.

Him, his house,
and all his books,
Consumed by his forbidden thought.
So happy was he that he had the answer,
He hardly even fought.

Years later, a new home was built,
Although it could never be sold;
For the man still lived there, though in another dimension,
Wanting the world to be told
That he figured it out.

So he'd leave clues
For those who went in alone.
He'd fog up mirrors or write on the walls,
And he'd say, "I KNOW WHO WAS PHONE."

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