There was a man,
who built a printing press,
Out of
metal, wood and ink,
He did not
realise he had taught it to think,
Every day,
when the man falls asleep, the press comes to life,
And prints
our histories and our futures,
Our entire
destiny exits, one character at a time,
What will
you call this, but God speaking to man?
For the
press is not a press, but the Holy Grail,
Someone made
it come to life and doesn’t know it yet
The Bilge Master
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