Mice click, keys patter.
Metal hums its favorite song.
This is not the realm of nature.
This is a man-u-fractured world,
Charged with a busy lust
For material material,
And earning sixteen
Comforts each hour,
(Money is comfort
And comfort is priceless—
Because the pricetag is hidden.)
That suit-clad, mad “me”-er
Short-circuits the world
Cells ring.
Wheels glide.
Cogs jam.
Mice click.
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