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 