Forgive me, friends, but I'm an engineer.
As such, my ways of thinking are aligned
With cost, convenience, and what's, to my mind,
Efficient and rewarding. What is dear
To me is what I take away from here
That lasts. To me your small-talk is a grind.
I've not the patience for it, and I find
Myself alone when we go out for beer:
Surrounded by you all, but lost in space.
I'm out of sorts, unmanned of all my powers,
A helpless fugitive from social grace,
And feeling like I'm wasting precious hours.
Confound you, people, let us quit this place!
The hand advances, and its sweep devours
Our goals, our dreams, our health, our friends
and wives,
Our every hope, my friends, our very lives!
George Chadderdon © 1997