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The idol of the home is here
We sit around and worship.
Our brains and souls are filled
Some of it gold, most of it dross.
The news it comes from far and near
To places far we trip
The actors are often killed
But never is it loss
For tomorrow they will re-appear
They never are too sick
They appear as they are billed
Rolling stones gathering no moss.
The idol that we worship is the television set
It winds itself around us
A religeon of its own
We worship at the altar
Of the TV and the mobile phone
What next will be the religeon
To take the place of God
We wish we had knobs marked
"God Off and On"
We worship at the altar so,
Perhaps it will be none.
Doreen
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