Since still the wrinkled citrus avatar
That Stupid God has sent here from afar
The work of hands and minds will seek to mar,
And still a throng will cheer for every move
The avatar will make and thereby prove
That Hobbes was right and it would behoove
To know Machiavelli better yet
So that some cynic vision still may get
Ahead and perhaps itself firmly set
Against the foul, unthinking, rushing tide
Of ignorance. All I can do is hide
And wait for its recession. I but bide
My time, although I know I'm like to drown,
And the avatar to show its crown.
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