Whose hands are these? I think I know,
But feel them not, now as I go.
My mind's own words, my grace, my foe,
Fly from my lips and for control-

I cannot let them win.
What art, what chords can save me now,
Before my soul can flee
From treacherous conformity?
I know not whether I need a doctor or a poet,
A needle or a quill.
I need to break
This ugly iambic-

These robots marching hand in hand,
These red lights flashing o'er the land;

I think I'd rather die alone
Than dine with one of many drones.