Things are moving fast and I'm a little confused
By the mad rush of events swirling all around.
I tell myself I'm an olding man not quite toast,
But smell I'm almost ready, shower twice a day.
It's one thing and another, no hope, not a ray
Of ethos; I miss teleology the most.
Scattered brain thoughts and demented yodels abound.
I'm one step beyond the darkness of men, I mused.
The monster balls feature fools and freak show sweeties,
The one-man waltzes turn into tarantellas;
Headlines scream: They're waterboarding Archimedes;
AI hallucinations become bestsellers.
So what am I supposed to do in my old age,
Become a happy panpsychist and bubble sage?
