The muse induces glorious trance:
She beckons to the lyric dance.
Descending from the heights of data,
Latin love, persona grata,
She knows my madness, used to me
“Go write some verse” she coos to me,
An ever-patient Muse to me . . .

My woke and wild Parnassian queen
Now conjures a pathetic scene:
The nations murmur in despair—
Technocracy would strip them bare.
Dictating mandates from on high,
Foul globalists would justify
An anti-world of endless strife:
Data-driven shit that passes for life,
Intending to impose their rules
On us: their meek plebeian tools.
They stimulate a failing system,
See what cashless chaos gets them;
Nouveau-feudalism’s ranks
Fund every war and prop up banks . . .
They’ll launch the drones and dig the pits;
Force it on upon us until it fits,
Then plunder, as the system fails.
Angels fall. It’s in the details.