When the payday dracula comes disguised as your son
The natural corporate offspring is a robot
Operated by a teenager, avoiding detention
With morons cheating quatrains by Captcha, bombing mosques by Kinect.
It is not no oddity could predict we would not fly cars
By September Eleven Oh-one, who knew we’d hold it against
That past’s Future, our own no space mercantiles, ours no bug fights,
We laugh, power pointing there, Love and Reason always elsewhere.
Their stooge is not the future’s enemy. The Boxer is just
Distraction, strategic delay for cost effective sponsor change.
Far from dim-witted, choosing not to make the decision with his head
But by the faith beaten into him by other clever believers:
The head they hold has its limits yet we suspect we do not
So wisdom must lie elsewhere, we reason. We dream of waking
So we can sleep, of grief so we can weep: noxious passion
For the pimply mind of The Market, our belief.
Don’t mix your doom echo with The Shape of Things.
It isn’t even your shape, come to that, just noise:
See the Boxer relish your panic, easy fixed by his poll
And nothing else. “What’s the good of it?” Indeed.
Good is decent people extrapolating.