The American In Me

Inside me I see Nothing perfect, nothing great Just a cog set in place To turn at will and make haste Influenced by the noisy machines That shine a light glisten and gleam They make us into zombie cats. We sit complacent on their laps All the while buying more Lost without the Wal-Mart store Telling us they are the best Making us spend our checks Just to crawl back The next day To our cog spots Put in place Turing again for the machine Until it wakes and realizes It doesn’t need Something so low tech and inefficient And so we are tossed…