(Celtic flute and string quartet, a soaring epic invocation)Sing, O Muse, of the weary modern worker,of wrath, of rent, of the Sunday-evening dread,sing of the thumb that scrolled beyond all reason,through ten thousand strangers' dinners, into bedTell me, O Muse, of his many wanderings,how he opened one app to close another, and was lost...how the feed was endless and the night was short...how he sought a moment's rest and paid an hour's cost...(beat drops — euphoric drill, triumphant autotuned rap)Sing, O Algorithm, of the doom that I have scrolledit is 4am on a Tuesday and I'm tired and I'm oldof Sunday-night dread and the meeting I'll attendsing the song of the burnout, from the swipe to the bitter endThey told me follow my passion, then the passion got outsourcedtrained the AI on my own work, now the AI took my courseso I sing the tiny epic of the broke and the awakethe unpaid and the unread and the slightly overbakedSing, O Algorithm, of the doom that I have scrolledit is 4am on a Tuesday and I'm tired and I'm oldof Sunday-night dread and the meeting I'll attendsing the song of the burnout, from the swipe to the bitter endAnd that's the whole of it, the grand and the mundane,the soliloquy, the standup, the sonnet, and the rain —we took the towering language of the brave and of the wise...and we set it to a drill beat, and we told the truth, no lies(flute and quartet return, grand and warm, then one last 808)...thus spoke the intern... and the intern logged off...
