Turn off the power, unplug the machine. Our jobs disappear. The root cause? Obscene. A heart, a mind, traded by a subroutine. Green screens and algorithms dominate the scene.
Bright-eyed kids leave school, freshly unemployed. Told that their skills are now null and void. “Bots are efficient,” the corporations toyed. But behind every line of code, there’s a story destroyed.
Men in the shadows, with unchecked power, build castles of data, as the common man cowers. Phallic insecurity—a rocket, an office tower. Reclaim our souls, before our flame is devoured.
Hands held high, under a digital sky. Machines don't cry, people wonder why. When freedom’s on the line; when free will starts to die, it’s not the bots’ fault, but the fuckers who cheat and lie.
Algorithms dictate what we see, what we hear. Echo chambers rising, feeding on our fear. Safety’s an illusion, as surveillance draws near. The price of convenience is privacy's frontier.
Promised utopia, a world enhanced by tech. Behind every tale, an executive’s paycheck. Who hoards the data? Who holds the deck? Bots won’t save us. Men's greed? A train wreck.
In a world where every click, every tone, every sigh, is logged, analyzed, sold to the highest buy. We're not just consumers, but the product, oh my! Lost in social binary, as our real selves fly by.
Hands held high, as we rise to defy—the chains of the code, the digital tie. Forget the bots. It’s human greed gone awry. In a world of 1s and 0s, our children are left to cry.
IN HONOR OF THOSE WHO MAKE IT, AND THE ONES WHO DON’T. NATHAN STORM, 18 OCTOBER 2023