A boy I know roars into battle armed
With a push-button panel of alarms
Not a single button of which connects
To any causation science detects.
He's in charge, he's the pilot, he's in love.
Nothing happens with anything he does,
But he keeps pushing buttons anyway,
Worrying over which to push today.
He's hurting, he's spending, he's sounding wise.
In his forecasts, everything's a surprise.
When things turn out somewhere near as he thought
He's delighted; when they don't he's distraught.
About his prospects not much can be said.
Pleasure and catastrophe dead ahead.
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