The Playstation Generation - Poem by Mark Pollins
Fields, run to the fields, he asked of them.
It’s hot out there, we don’t want to, they answered.
Hills, climb those hills, he suggested.
It’s hard-going up there, we’ll end up injured.
Books, read books, he pleaded.
You don’t get books with your hamburger and chips, they yawned.
Leave the cities, he cried.
Cities are our home, without them we die, they said - not moving their lips.
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