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What value this? To what end
these?
To sort, to scan, to type the keys,
To file, to phone, to read the mail,
To meet, to melt as air grows stale?
Were we not naked once, and wild?
With our natures reconciled?
Did not our fathers' backs and hands
Raise up these walls, restore these lands?
Were I set free to tread the
field --
Shirt off my back -- and bravely wield
The scythe, the spade, the wheel, the plow,
Would I wish for... what I do now?
I sit. I sort. I think. I plan.
Do these things make me less a man?
Do strain, grit, struggle, sweat and toil,
To split the block and turn the soil,
Make me more noble, or just tired?
I need to know -- I've just been
fired.
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