The Printing Press

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