And in these electronic days,
we sit up late and bleary-eyed,
lament the lives that we're denied
by lack of time. We dream up ways
to simulate the world outside,
with apps and arses spreading wide
to anchor us in cyber phase.
The virtual reality
of mood-ring tips and what's your sign
and who's your cartoon valentine
and romance via USB
to mutual complacency
consumes us as we freely dine
on pulped-up splats of chicken spine
devolving by online decree.
What once had seemed a passing craze
to fill our time, a harmless ride
across the world is now a slide
unchecked to hand us more delays
to growing up. We are clichés,
as here within our heads we hide.
The strangers in whom we confide
fulfil desires for endless praise.
And yet take heed: the bourgeoisie
are serfing too, and so the line
is pixelated. You design
your station here, equality
may yet be actuality
if we but choose to redefine
our thoughts. Today, I start with mine:
I am the monarch of the sea.
Off with the tops of empty heads;
they must be filled with words of worth.
Go forth, ensure this virus spreads,
and poetry shall rule the earth.