We who would traverse the stars
decline to taste a single blade of grass,
to bend and drink clear water from a glacial stream,
to pick the wild black berry
or heed the hawk’s high, solitary call.
Old Frost knew us lost:
Provide, provide hums the mantra of the hive.
For every obstacle to wants,
for every loss to gain,
an other whispers in our ear:
I have it here, mate;
just step around the corner.
Old Wordsworth cut it plain:
better outworn creed than vampire greed.
Press 1 to enter
your unique twelve digit number.
Press 2 to hear
the menu of your anger build as patriotic music bids.
Press 3 to detonate.