November 7, 2024

What you're mad at is a brand,

A machine, a programmed 'bot,

The creation of a few power-hungry men

Into a marketable product.

Somehow we've got to come to grips

With 71 million strong.

They look like you, they live like you,

Probably joined you in song.

It wasn't hate that most of them bought,

That was the tax on the goods

That filled their restless needs

And resonated with their livelihoods.

In times of angst, we fear the boogeyman,

Keep an eye for that easy target,

But as every horror writer knows,

The danger is always something larger.

This is our existential crisis:

Where do we begin with so much to repair?

The monster was never the issue,

Regardless of how much we despair.

If there's to be any reconstruction

Or eventual reconciliation,

The divide needs to be bridged

Within this fractured nation:

The venom needs flushed,

The hyperbole must stop,

Even if the whole time the A.I.

Is incapable of letting its schtick drop.