One Man's Floor Is Another Man's Ceiling

What does he do up there all day - arrange foreplay,
we're all watched over, to see if anyone's on strike today:
what's good in your life, sport perhaps, inter-galactic in heaven -
the Martians ran 100 metres in six seconds, no one could win again.

I write, power of the pen, so did Moses, brought tablets from desert,
those commandments shrunk from nearly one hundred to ten,
so many 'thou shalt nots,' you could never pick your nose again,
go forth and populate the Earth, we're doing it for all we're worth.

I used to run out of ink, now the computers are the ones to think,
my robot does the ironing, then maybe brings me a pina colada,
I gave him a push and a wink, tell him that he must try harder,
notice 'him,' because he's got a cock, thank God it's under lock.

I tell 'him' to scratch my back, he says: 'Sorry, I can't do that,'
these damn programmes, he scurries off like an admonished rat.