We perform our selfless services
To the selfish creative artists,
Falsifiers of hypotheses,
Elaborators of arguments.
We read their stories, we read the news,
We seek out poems for sustenance,
Discoveries for reassurance,
Ideas for hopes we can't outcompete.
We remain poor, humble consumers
In the marketplace of fantasies,
Cheering spectators in the cheap seats
Perched above the blood sport of ideas.
And what are the thanks we get for this,
We, sterile, worker castes of culture?
We get to elaborate our dreams
With the terrors felt by drones and queens.