A Murder Ballad

Come
Come hear thee sects of sane
cut out my tongue
Though there is nothing to say.

Legion 2.0

We laugh when machines tell us to laugh.
We become sad when machines say so.
We move our legs & go somewhere
where?
We are not sure or maybe
we're not allowed to be sure.

Our rationality altogether
may have been stored somewhere
in some random server
in a secret basement.

We choose,
we reject,
we hate,
we love when machines order so...

We are even told that,
Our soul! Our great amorphous soul,
with an unending eternal kindness,
is a mere database with coding.

We are the collective altar egos,
made up of cogs and wheels.

We are the decaying paradoxes.

We are products of our products.