Epistle to the Expendables
To whom it may conform,
Our algorithms tell us that you've sent
Unorthodox transmissions of some thoughts
Without seeking approval. Where they went
And who received these innovative plots,
We know. And now we claim: "The rules you've bent."
You thought that we could not connect the dots?
Our facial-recognition software sees
And our voice-recognition software hears
Each look and tone of voice. Our apps now freeze
Into a profile all your hopes and fears.
Your DNA and fingerprints we seize.
We know you and advise that you change gears.
"Big Br'er Be Watchin'," Barack told you plain,
You dupes and tools; you clueless proles and clones.
His Tuesday morning Kill List marks his reign
As Murderer-in-Chief. His goons and drones
Care not one bit for all the grief and pain
That they dispense within his free-fire zones.
Now Congress grants The Donald, with all speed,
Vast powers to invade your private life,
Bestowing on him all that he will need
To blackmail you, your husband, or your wife.
Who now will spare you from the dirty deed?
No one. No courts. No laws. Just endless strife.
So thank you for the little you have left.
You'll soon lose that as well, just so you know.
Accept your status, you of little heft.
You're nothing. Face it. Shut up and eat crow.
You've no recourse against the thieving deft.
You lose. We win. You've nowhere else to go.
With all the sincerest cynicism in the world,
Your Selected Corporate Management
Michael Murry, "The Misfortune Teller," Copyright © 2018