He sits alone and contemplates
Those heady days of yore
In a world that was much simpler
Than the one he now endures
He silently curses Babbage
As he turns to his computer
For it was his invention
That destabilised his future
Not all technology falls within
This 'post modern ' immorality
Just the machinery that is found
To be hurtful to commanility
These days of sending emails
Delivered in a blink
Remove the personal nuances
Once found with pen and ink
Gone the days when penmanship
Was something so admired
Now the ability to press a key
Is the only skill required
There are too few neo luddites
Within his group of peers
And so he soldiers bravely on
Ignoring all the jeers
Not for him a world complete
With modern technology
He hankers for the good old days
Without high tech gadgetry
He does not need the internet
To know the world outside
Yes he'll be a neo luddite
Until the day he dies.
Copyright Pat Brogan 2003
