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…
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