I’m sitting at my desk again, trying hard not to cry,
waiting for my laptop to restart again so I
can find some amusement. And what’s the reason why?
’Cos I’m too old to go to work – no-one wants me any more,
so I’ve got to find some other things to fill my life, for sure,
’til God sends his disciples to come knocking on my door.
I’ve tried to read, but tiny printed words I cannot see.
I’ve walked my limping dogs, but that’s not far enough for me,
and my friends are all so busy, visiting their family.
I suppose I could read my pile of post, but that’s a chore.
Most of it is junk mail, or stuff I’ve had before.
I wonder why they still keep putting it through my door?
Quill pens, ledgers – bring them all back,
throw away computers on a disused railway track.
Bury them deep and plant over lots of trees,
or take them to the bottom of the deepest seas!
I don’t think we were this stressed fifty years ago.
except when we couldn’t get through the driving snow.
So much information, how can one take it in?
and do we need it for our happiness within?
I remember when we had our first computers –
they were bigger than a pile of invalid scooters!
There was an army of personnel pumping info in,
and a forest load of trees spewed out, which ended in the bin.
French! German! Geog!
Oh what a fog!
What do I suffer like this for?
It’s surely too much