or The Ergodic Hypothesis Strikes Again
or It’s Thermodynamics, Stupid!

Riemann in his youth
mishears a lecture
and decides to try this ergotic hypothesis
he hears so much about.
He secures some ergot-infested rye
and ingests a sizeable dose
of the alkaloid ergotamine
responsible for causing
the “sacred fire”
once cured by monks
of Saint Anthony of the Desert.

Riemann trips hard:
he is tempted by Hieronymus Bosch,
he is Beowulf,
he is a witch in Salem,
he is a scarlet letter
then a pimpernel,
then pumpernickel,
then he is Allen Ginsberg
and he is holy
he is love to all things
then he is Dr. Roberts
and then he knows
about holes.
He knows all,
he is everywhere
he takes every path, with equanimity.
When the ergot intoxication wanes off
Riemann sates his munchies with a large sandwich,
washing it down with a milkshake
and notices that, if poured long enough,
the milkshake will coat evenly the surface
of the table, or a sphere, for that matter.