©1996 by Karl Scheer

I am the god, Technology,

And science is my creed.

I know you all believe in me

Of proof I have no need.

Come, show me one among you

Without faith in my designs,

Who’ll not accept the orders

That I scream ‘cross telephone lines.

Who questions my hegemony

As the jumbo jet takes wing,

Or fails to praise my minions

When they cause the tires to sing?

I’ll make your job so easy

That you’re rendered obsolete,

But I’ll record your whimpers

As you’re crushed beneath my feet.

I can sell them to your children

With a techno-dance background

That they may know your helplessness

When you were still around.

Let the Amish dial their homepage

And the Luddites crush their hands

They may try to undermine me

But they will bow to my commands.

All you hippies on your farms

Lit by photovoltaic cells

You pretend I’m not your master

But you need the things I sell.

IBM, Electrolux,

The Macintosh and Ford,

Mere servants in my armory

I’ll kill them when I’m bored.

For boredom is my lover

She lures you to my lair,

Where I feed you endless everything

You needn’t leave your chair.

The dreams of dreamers distant

And dreamers close at hand,

All these I can supply you

I don’t ask you understand.

Your Buddhas sheathed in neon

Your Jesus on the air

Go on, believe they love you,