Wild seeds, we all drifted to the same field

Took root, we thought, in our rambling way

The long boom was on and there was no yield

Required, just a paradigm shift to pay

Digital pirates sailing raves til day

Cast a fogged breath on the post-ecstasy

Ghosts in a gallery on Minna, say,

Twined on a sofa or prima facie

Slurring a new deal as the sands ran down

In the many hands of the god of markets,

Speaking in all those abstracted nouns

Of data’s desires to line their pockets

With its freedom; all gone now. I fit in

Sharing low taste in dress, nothing to win.