Living amongst the machines

 
It's very clean here
Everyone has intrapersonal 'space'
No one will touch you
or talk to you
Like gods on golden thrones
we appear to never get sick
and nothing dies
We live off seemingly spritual food
The only blood we see is plastic
We don't enslave our animals
We deify them
Our offspring are decked richly
in gifts from the meccas of fashion
They never see the fairies that craft them
In every mansion we have wisely planted
a tree of the knowledge of good and evil
To ensure that our cult of the dollar
maintains the heavenly illusion