We Are Like Snails, Each Stuck To

If Man Had More Of A Sense Of Humor, Things Might Have Turned Out Differently.

Not Far From Here, By A White Sun, Behind A Green Star, Lived The Steelypips, Illustrious, Industrious, And They Hadn't A Care: No Spats In Their Vats, No Rules, No Schools, No Gloom, No Evil Influence Of The Moon, No Trouble From Matter Or Antimatter - For They Had A Machine, A Dream Of A Machine, With Springs And Gears And Perfect In Every Respect. And They Lived With It, And On It, And Under It, And Inside It, For It Was All They Had - First They Saved Up All Their Atoms, Then They Put Them All Together, And If One Didn't Fit, Why They Chipped At It A Bit, And Everything Was Just Fine.

Even A Fool Could See That One Didn't Need A War, Nuclear Or Otherwise, To Destroy Oneself; The Rising Cost Of Weaponry Could Do That Quite Nicely.

You Climb To Reach The Summit, But Once There, Discover That All Roads Lead Down.

Man Has Gone Out To Explore Other Worlds And Other Civilizations Without Having Explored His Own Labyrinth Of Dark Passages And Secret Chambers, And Without Finding What Lies Behind Doorways That He Himself Has Sealed.