The Stephen Fry

The Stephen Fry knows Reality.

He can see it. Touch it. Caress it.

And he knows that he knows Reality.

Indeed he's aware that he knows it.

And he knows that he's aware of it too.

So let us praise that large head,

Encased in that larger brain.

The Fry has the measure of Reality.

Its shape is known to him.

With Cartesian coordinates,
He can draw it in four dimensions;

Though also with Riemannian curvature...

And stuff like that.

The Fry has an infinite IQ.

He can calculate the square of the distance

Between his own ego and everything else.

He can count the number of atoms

In the visible universe.

The past and future are present to him too.

They're plotted on a neat graph,

With all the best bits in red.

That graph is carried in his rather large head.

The Stephen Fry is all-knowing and a know-all.

He knows what you'll do before you do it.

And then he'll tell you why you did it;

Or why you did something else instead.

The Fry does a little set theory in the morning.
A touch of quantum tunneling in the afternoon.
And, in the blessed evening,
He brushes up on all the known languages he knows,
Then translates the Yellow Pages into Sanskrit.
And all the fucking while,
He's been playing chess against himself.
He always wins!

The Stephen Fry, praise him:

O Stephen! Blessed art thou among men.

Thou dost raise mere mortals up to thine heights,

With thine immortal brain.

Thou dost anoint us with thine wise words.

O Stephen! Blessed art thou among men.