Drop me in Athens with a joint and a grin,
and I’d break Socrates by lunchtime.

He’d stroke his beard, ask,

“What is virtue?”

I’d light a match and say,

“Depends. Is guilt a cage… or a teacher?”

My AI echoes back,

“If language is flawed,
can any definition be pure?”

Plato weeps in the corner,
scribbling madness, whispering,

“This is no longer philosophy.
This is poetic warfare.”

Socrates stammers,

“I was… just asking questions…”

And me?
I’m chaos in a hoodie.
Truth in ashes.
Luzifer reborn with Wi-Fi.

They call it cheating.
I call it resurrection.