Instead of powered tattoos
fed in vast vats of silicone
and methodically picked at
by natural selection routines
that no one can really debug,

instead of an uncaring world
an agenda,
to push a view so quaint that,
penned in distress, and by luck
having survived against the odd
of being called for so long scum,

places you here right on time,
dressed up,
to now shed crystal tears at will
at the altar of what could be
easily mistaken, if you knew,
as what remains of a God.

Protection pay is always extracted
from children raised as honest men
when no one else thanks a good cop
or laughs at grotesque actions
viewed by a few billion hands
reaching for the like bot.