I'm the millionth monkey
And I've been typing a long long time.
My fingers are raw at their fuzzy tips.
My arms are sore when I scratch my head.
My back is an aching bow.
I’ve spent my life in pounding these keys.
Time to strike this one then another,
A space then that one next.
Hit return, sound the bell, and start again.
This all seems right though I cannot
Explain the why of it.
Each step made moves surely
Across and down the page,
A ceaseless progression.
I shake my head to break
The rhythm which spins the minutes,
Hours and days steady toward some end.
I know what I am to do,
Like all the rest, an immense room
Full of industrious souls destined
To live forever, I guess, or seems like
Beneath the fluorescent glow and shimmer.
I wish the meaning of these symbols were clear
And how I should be sorting them,
What might be the need, if any,
Of each momentary repetition,
Why we have all attached our furry selves
To these iron devices.
Something happened long ago.
We've been grouped here ever since,
My father and his as well.
The word came down.
Our way is set in motion – tick tock.
A day may come to end this
But will I know when it happens?
In these endless rows of others,
All focused on our same routine
With similar frustrations and
Entirely different results.
Diligent and hopeful
And sure we are each
The one that will construct
The perfect result which proves
The value of the continuous effort.
Some groan that we are wasting our lives.
Others state that our purpose is the task.
I've seen those with heads bent low and
Others thrilled by each stroke.
I think we'll know bye and bye.
Put a monkey with a typewriter
And this is usually what you get —
HdthIxxhnyjkvszxdgnymuv rtovunctbgfgfg
tttydoNotbxtbxbb tyhbrtbdrt DTHBeRNCC
dgfdknowtrnrum’mhus dgordgH FFF
fyjfthewhyyvyvgmy gkkvfgyjkkuh mnotvygh
But a possible outcome is eventual.
And on that blessed day
Word is all will be forgiven.
DoubleSpeak 