From rockets to Mars and the deep star-map,
To taking a long afternoon garden nap.
No more Neuralink or satellite beams -
Just selling organic sambar-vada dreams.
The boardrooms are silent, the Twitter-wars cease,
I’m trading my stocks for some "piece of the peace."
Instead of a Tesla that drives on its own,
I’ll drive a slow TVS50 through the harvest zone.
I’ll sing a few songs to a gathering crowd,
While selling my onions and feeling quite proud.
Forget the high tech and the cold Martian soil,
I’ll just watch my pot of filter coffee boil.
