A posse of cronies
With button-marked thumbs
Were part of a ring
Of cyberspace chums

With crimson-lined eyes
They played night and day
Till some solemn stranger
Took their machines away

The stranger stole through the dark
Before they, could awake
To tip their technology
Into a lake

The groups sleep-rested eyes
Opened to see
The redundant space
Where gizmos should be

Some shouted, some cried
Some just couldn't speak
They rose from their beds
Confused and knees weak

Once clothed and clean
And breakfast was through
One cry could be heard
'Now what do we do?'