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| jo'b |
That is no country for old men,
The young in one another's phones,
The comment-crowded screens,
The AI-addled dreams,
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of undeveloped intellect.
Man is but a paltry thing,
An old Perfecto on a post, unless
Soul clap its hands and play, and louder play,
Pandora, aged watchers under stars,
—Those dying generations— at their song,
Wizened rock-'n'-rollers
Limping off into the trees
Of drug-dimmed memories, some
Still strong enough to raise.
For cameras everywhere, a fist
In late defiance as they go, or to imagine so,
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
—a riff on W. B. Yeats' Sailing to Byzantium, with profound apologies to the great poet
