We’re like monkeys with typewriters. This is year nine
Of one point three more million. The Britannica
We are right in the middle of writing, and we
Are accustomed to living unnaturally.
We are caught in a self-created dilemma.
As a fluke, we are of a peculiar design.

As soon as we stop what we’re doing we’ll relapse
Into nonsense. We would have to start all over
From day one of year one. We are in constant fear
Of it ending abruptly. We’ve made a career
Of our diligent keystroking, as we prefer
To remain odd and able… and worthy perhaps.

We like our way of life. We like being human.
If we want to stay this way we must fight nature.
We must impose our will upon this world so wild.
Manliness is aggression. One is aptly styled
With a mask for the doubt. The tough one must ensure
That control over nature is the only plan.

We need not conquer space. We are there already.
With the aid of technology we are as far
As we’ll ever get. The rocket and bulldozer
Are big symbols of culture. Be the proposer
Of a gentler vibration. After all we are
But a byproduct of nature ultimately.