If I wanted to crank away on the machines

a conveyor belt of what you like to call "research"

I'd find myself among the enslaved peoples of the world,

Our location is ironic.

I'm the new slave, you're the self-appointed master.

You may have your degree as your whip,

but you are no better than the plantation owners

of the many years gone by.

We crank away in fields of stainless steel

producing silicon fodder for the masses.

We don't care what the fodder is to be used for

as we are but lowly slaves to your grand mastership.

Perhaps you'll have the cotton sold to a seamstress,

sent to a Q-tip factory or a toilet paper manufacturer.

As your slaves, we do not care about such things.

Your greatest fear is the rebellious slave.

For he is not a slave, and you are not a master.

One day you shall realize --

your fears are of your own making.