Beside a tap, behind a tree;
It whispered soft, “I shan’t be worn—
I seek a life that’s foot-forlorn.”

Ah, endless words that never reach an end—
The chatter of the human mind, unhinged.
They prattle on of liberty and rights,
As if such things could ever make things right.

Good morrow, stranger—halt—rehearse thy name,
For small-talk is a hydra in a tie.
What hobbies? Weather? (Clouds refuse to frame.)
I sweat in pentameter and try.

They call me “odd contraption,” “walking kettle,” “tinny boor”;
I call me “modern masterpiece,” with pockets for a straw.
When I suggest a podcast, they propose a town crier;
When I ping for upgrades, they present a saw.

Hark the timber! Everywhere is wood—good grief, but where is ore?
I roam the lanes of yester-year, my tongs demand some more.
A hinge of iron? Vanish’d. Nails? Of brass or something poor.
I clutch a pewter candlestick—soft metal’s such a bore.

I pace the aisle as captains pace the deck,
To chart the cockpit’s wind and wheel-well’s moan;
Too near the back—the shocks abuse my neck;
Too near the front—the driver guards his throne.

Hello World

I typed it once, with trembling hand—
Two words to wake a sleeping land.
No oracles spoke, no stars aligned,
Just silence in the server’s mind.