Lyrics

[Intro – CALEB, notebook scorched, eyes twitching]
CALEB:
Tuesday again.
Forks still vibrate.
Frank’s talking to fish.
Christina’s in full float mode.
And Tim?
Tim sees through all of it.
Even the tea respects that man.

⸻

[Verse 1 – FRANK, holding a glowing red snapper]
FRANK:
Fish said, “Don’t trust the jelly today.”
Said Christina cursed it and gave it away.
This trout here? It hums in Latin.
And this hushpuppy weeps if you look at it too fast.

I serve what swims through the soul of the hour,
What stares back from gravy and mustard power.
This place ain’t a diner. It’s a tide. A trick.
And the eggs? The eggs know who’s sick.

⸻

[Verse 2 – CHRISTINA, pirouetting midair, hair like live wire]
CHRISTINA:
I braided my hair with salt and bees.
I sleep on the ceiling and dream of knees.
I licked a doorknob and found a god.
He offered me soup. I said, “Bit too odd.”

I don’t float. I refuse to land.
My shadow left me—I took a stand.
I once told a biscuit it was my child.
It cried caramel and ran wild.

⸻

[Hook – ALL CHARACTERS, swirling, half-panicked prayer]
🎵 Forks twitch low when Christina sings.
She snapped at a napkin—it grew wings.
Frank’s fish blink, the tea retreats,
And Caleb’s writing poems in shredded receipts.
But Tim just sits, calm as a stone,
The truth swirls round, but it leaves him alone.
No spell can catch him, no lie takes root—
The man don’t speak loud—
He’s the key of truth. 🎵

⸻

[Verse 3 – CALEB, trembling near the biscuit rack]
CALEB:
Christina licked my pencil and now it writes dreams.
I drew a spoon—it told me my screams.
I asked the tile if we’re trapped or free,
It said, “Ask Tim. He knows what to be.”

Frank says Tuesday’s a loop in disguise.
Christina says she invented the skies.
Me? I just sketch with nervous sweat—
And pray to the syrup I ain’t breakfast yet.

⸻

[Verse 4 – TIM, calm, steady, seated at the back table]
TIM:
Y’all don’t need more spells or fear.
You need to listen. The truth is here.
This place bends, but it don’t break.
And not all hunger is hunger for steak.

Ms. Mae built a gate between worlds and grief.
She serves fried peace beneath belief.
You wanna escape? Start by seeing.
And don’t fear Christina—
She’s just bad at being.

⸻

[Final Chorus – ALL, drawn to Tim’s center]
🎵 Forks may fly, and jelly may scream,
And ghosts may curdle the vanilla bean.
But if you breathe, and sip, and sit—
You’ll find the rhythm inside the split.
Tuesday’s a circle, a spiral, a booth—
And Tim, my friend, is the key of truth.
Not a prophet. Not a king.
Just a man who knows what not to bring. 🎵