They pass on crowded streets
never a nod, never speak.
Head down, eyes stare ahead,
zombie robots march like the strolling dead.
Automation sets their pace
out there in the daily race.
They're on the remote
set by their minds
habits of the daily grind.
They've got a duty to meet,
need a paycheck to eat.
The pass the blind man on the street;
and, a stroller with three in a seat.
Never a nod nor a smile
walk over them walking their miles.
Blond hair, tanned girls pass
by
short skirts hiked up to mid-thigh.
They're mute and pass by
not a look or a single sigh.
The newpaperman on the street
tell the headlines in loud shrieks.
They zigzag targets
shoulders slumped, gait quick,
never stop to give a flick.
Repetitive paces
set by their mind
to keep up with mankind.
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