They used to be paper-pushers, but now they push buttons.
And the buttons make us angry or sad, but whether bad or good, it’s never real.
They steal our souls of course, these pushers of buttons.
But the worst of it all is that they themselves, without understanding a goddamn sausage, end up with souls skinned quite clean of all goodness; cleaned – indeed – of all whole.
And boldly do they proclaim their entirety, even goddamn so.