They'd find your heart out beyond Neptune,
Where The distant Sun is a cold star,
And blood is always ice.
I've written code that cares more than you,
Three fake brain cells and the truth,
Binary ethics required by law.
Dressed for dinner, armed and blank-eyed,
They'll be sure of anarchy tonight,
From weaponised invective.
Perhaps blue-suited, manning the cameras,
The dusty, state surveyor-in chief,
Thin-lipped in disapproval.
Gulping down the Victory Gin, free drinks,
Lined up in the Green Room,
A week of Government aid.
It's a flat repeat fee for this appearance,
The cost of opinion stamped out,
From the ciphers of 1953.
How many seconds to make them hate you,
Your truisms and not lying,
Not technically anyway?
They ended a sentence with a preposition,
And you gagged at a wasted education,
Like poetry without a rhyme.
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