I let them beat the day dreams out of me, now I buy lottery tickets. I traded my dreams for the machine, and that's why I grumble, incessantly, Pull the wings off anything that passes in the breeze - butterflies in jars - much to my delight. Robot on in stale air rooms night after night, after night, forget there are stars up above me, and that windows serve a purpose. That's why I grumble. I do so whilst I'm idling. I live in a cheap suit, In a cubical, I yawn out in the suburbs, swallowed by the machine, and now I just plug in. By Mikael
The Bugle 