You're data baby.
That's right, statistically engraved in the technology heap.
The traffic that's reaped is enough to enslave.
So weep not, the monitor will make you sleep—not.
You're code man.
Web hooligan you're here to google again.
Addicted to feed the box.
Feed fonts to it and watch it give birth to results.
You're a binary blogger—bandwidth hogger.
You started out with Frogger, and Atari went lame—now its ten o' clock and it's time to game.
COD has you?
Minecraft is your life raft from interaction.
It's a console attraction, a hi-speed bleed of a clan tag weed-infecting your mind lawn.
Don't yawn, grab the caffeine.
Feed the machine; feed the dream . . . of another.
I'm guilty Tew, I'm just like you.
Dialed in and tethered to social media.
Twittering the public.
My mouse has a pad, I live in a pad with an iPad—isn't that iRad.
It's not sad, we're connected and collective.
We're dreamers and schemers, technology weavers.
This is our age of deletion and formation.
If my motherboard makes your mother bored, then make her an account.
Be held accountable by your email and not your phone.
That bone has been buried.
We're data dude.
Don't be rude, you do it too, I've seen your page its blue just like mine.
Now stand in line and eat information, greet an IM with a smiley face and improper use of quotations.
It's an era of Internet and surfing still exists.
Don't forget to be active and tear a wrist busting a kick-flip over the gap in the alley.
Don't forget to call Sally.
She has your number and your friend request but she won't rest until she finds a man that can step away from the info-quest.
Don't be zombiesque.
You're human, but there is no excuse for time abuse.
Get off your ass and mow the grass bro before you grow in mass.
You're data baby.
Copyright ©2013 Justin Daniel Tew