First Man: I think, I think I am, I think.
Establishment: Of course you are my bright little star.
               I've miles
               And miles
                Of files
               Pretty files of your forefather's fruit
                                      And now to suit our
                                        Great computer
               You're magnetic ink.

First Man: I'm more than that, I know I am, at least, I think I must be.

Inner Man: There you go, man, keep as cool as you can.
              Face piles
              And piles
               Of trials
             With smiles
                  It riles them to believe
                         That you perceive
                        The web they weave
             And keep on thinking free.
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