The tube, the box, the artificial world
sat squarely in the corner of the room
where once a conversation had unfurled
now stagnant silence peering from the gloom
in want of fun, folly, artificial joy,
no thoughts created, only thought consumed,
where once the pen was our most cherished toy,
now stands the box in which we are entombed. 
George believed control through that which we hate
Aldous through bombardment with things we love,
The threat of this electric opiate
I fear much more than Orwells famed Big Bruv.
So turn it off, take down a book and find
the thaw to melt the snows that freeze the mind.

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