When on this disc I first landed,
I thought it most underhanded:
For lo! no schedules here to see–
This land had turned post-scarcity.
Through forests deep and brambles wild,
I hustled, frightened like a child.
No products to be in demand–
A foul and crushing reprimand.
Said I, “I’ve lost my only job!”
And, like a fool, began to sob;
Oh, lonely economist, I!
I could not trace curves of supply.
What purpose could I hope to find
In bleak, passionless, daily grinds
Whose labors all must prove for naught,
With money now but all forgot?
Then, to my mind, a thought descends–
We met like long and loyal friends;
A mad passion seized on my brain,
Came roaring through like some great train.
And through the tunnel came the light,
My eyes soon dancing with delight–
“Aha!” I cried, and mourning quit,
A man now seized in trembling fit.
Now, bathed in numbers, here sit I,
Watching with an all-seeing eye
As workers toil on planets far,
Through mud and mire, through muck and tar.
And I bear a fond relation
To these strange and foreign nations
Whose curves I trace for days on end,
Whose demand schedules are my friends.
And here sit I, upon this disc,
Free from troubles, and free from risk.
(Indeed, most everything is free–
Thank goodness for post-scarcity!)