We are the hostages of progress
Children of the technogenic process
They learned how to think gigabytes
On the pages.
Life filled with avatars and sites,
On the faces.
Our whole history in gadgets
And you will not ask: How are you?
And you are baptized.
Where are you in virtual, charity?
The keys are clogged with zeal
What is there with humility?
On the nerves.
We divide by the second ability
And the first.
Everything and everything we criticize
We and executioners, we and politicians -
It does not matter.
Repentance has long been unknown.
Also it would not be desirable.
Truth is a lie already known.
And it will not end.
We are different, we are not the same
In the Internet.
To us, that Trump, that Brezhnev -
Not in the answer.
We are friends more "likes"
We do not communicate, but we write bikes,
There is no patience in the knocking of the keys.
We are philosophers of pages, we and geniuses
We ourselves now turn to "justice"
The cry of the crowd is heard: Victim in the studio
And on the block.
We will disassemble any and on bones
All the decompositions.
Do not like it - eight doshochek
And let's put it.
And on the street everything is also blue,
And not the clouds.
How are you there? Not the Internet ... Russia.