The Gloves Are Off
Since art has lost the manual touch,
We’re losing grip of anatomy –
Our illustrations are in the clutch
Of the polydactyl travesty.
Digital digits and silicon glands
Make too many fingers, too few thumbs –
That lead to such unhandsome hands
From thought-machines that can’t do sums.
A sure way to uncover the witch
Whose fingers point to a lack of soul,
It only takes the flick of a switch
To over-endow a lack of control.
But they’ll slowly grasp to make a fist,
So we’d best stop smirking behind our fans –
They might not have a pulse in their wrist,
But our future’s held in their second-hand hands.
Rhyming Couplets 