When all the world is out in formal dress,
Grey skies and spasms of black silk impress,
A dance in every play through heavy drips,
A drama through the hardened gaze that slips,
From street to sky in one ascending swoop,
At this the soul is dazed!

When man is suddenly festooned with thought,
Reluctant swallows remedies as taught,
Dark beauties in the gaps of brooding cloud,
The world is good but too so very loud,
And he must have his place:
A creature and creator of such sights.

Donning now the fools sharp head,
His sparking eyes and cheeky smile,
Forgetting all the self for just a while,
To laugh and be a laugh.

A practiced fluency I've gained,
To walk in languages and symbols vast,
To follow steps of giants in the wake
Of history and its captivated minds.

Their fantasy and genius care to show,
In objects of reason borne in Greek script,
Wrapped up in varied meanings -
A model of computation and its simple alphabet.

Oh the winding spools of tape that coil upon the winds,
Drawn out beneath these marching machines -
Automata of the dreamy kind.

Polychrome tactile chunks,
Rattle round my head with style,
Clicking down memory lane,
To wisened corners twice dusted down,
And now I grasp thee,
Algorithm of the tactile breed,
Turning with my fingers hastened,
Till the polychrome mosaic sits still in tranquil rows...
And I crush thee into squirming chaos,
And rattle on with speed in tow.