My Dear Malcolm

We will have no dreary world
With no art, no music, no poetry,
No religion, no fiction, no prose:
Only cold science and sex.
What a dreary world it will be.
The AI won't do all our thinking for us
While we slave away in the mud.
When we see how the world burns.
But Brandon Neifert will not be there;
He'll be someplace cool and beautiful
With many waters, and good meat;
Mountainous but a subdued land
With gentle currents and cataracts;
A tall, ruby headed angel with comely breasts
And a perfect face, as I do my Sondance for her
Upon the jasper cube of Zion's golden streets;
Its decadent forests of fruit trees
Will be our meats; not the lamb or ox---
Come, be a poet with me, will you?
Forget about this current world
For it is the one you wish to build.
The one without people like me.
Come, I will save you from it
If you just listen. Come.
We will have a Husband fashioned from the soil
We will nurse from the breasts of kings;
Those forlorn and scorned of their Husbands of youth
Shall become a mighty nation
And the LORD shall be a husband
And we shall gaze upon the Beauty of the LORD.
I do not sin by saying so;
It is all in the book.