Robot

As a young boy
riding bikes in 1983,
I heard the robots would rise
and take from me
the factory.

It'd all be roses;
couldn't I see?
An exodus from baking bricks,
we'd be set free.

We'd walk tall
with good pay and
acres of sweet time
(spiced with liberty)
to sip decent beer,
to write bad poetry.

With 20/20 vision
and somber eyes
(touched by a Nazarene's 
humble Divinity)
I now can see
the Robots,
the Billionaires,
and our frantic, sweating 
Productivity.

But where's the time?
Where's the wage?
And what does it mean
for the land of the free 
when the best job's with
the I.C.E.
putting brown people in
Captivity
while we chant
Security?