Once presents and parcels
were special things
Only arriving on certain
occasions
Carefully wrapped in layers
of paper
Secured with sticky
tape and string
By your friends and your
relations,
Then opened to reveal
objects of delight,
On days of
celebration.
This is how It was
long ago
Now in middle class utopia
Traffic jams of
delivery vans
Clog the crescents
and groves of suburbia
Each vehicle driven
By a most miserable
man
Overworked and
underpaid
By the number of
drops he does
A pittance for each
delivery he has made
Meanwhile nearby the High
Streets die
Shops coffined up by
shutters,
Their doorways once
carefully swept,
Are now niches where
are rubbish collects:
And in Bleak Fields
Where motorways
intersect
Large sheds have been
erected
Computer governed
inside
And roboticized
Here goods are packed
and selected
With lorries
streaming in
And the vans streaming
out
Tons and tons and tons
Of stuff is moved
about
And delivered to
destinations
Where packaging is
ripped off
And thrown away
As we build an all-consuming
future
Living on top of garbage
hills
Unpacking endless artefacts
Of course, this can last
forever
Surely our planet cannot be finite,
If our demands are exponential
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