The Prescient Vest

‘You’ve come to the end, it’s sad, my friend

But there’s nothing more we can do,

Your kidneys have malfunctioned, and

You’re at the end of the queue.

You’d best be making your Will out now

Or you may run out of time,

There’s just a question of fifteen thou’

You owe for our work, just sign!’

 

‘I’ll not be signing my life away

Just now, though it’s almost done,

I may be taking a walk someday

But not ‘til I’ve had some fun.

You say I’ve only a week or two

To spend, and that’s at the best,

I’ll cram the rest of my living in

With the help of a Prescient Vest.’

 

The Prescient Vest, the brainchild of

A Silicone Valley clone,

It calculated the path of life

From the life already known,

It fed its images through a brain

That would never live to see

The normal span of the life of man

Through some abnormality.

 

So Kevin fronted the Institute

And was strapped into a chair,

Fitted with Vest and Headpiece

And was virtually aware,

It drained the memories of his life

That flashed on past his sight,

And stored them into a tiny file

Just less than a Gigabyte.

 

And then it started to calculate

Beginning with his wife,

It showed her having a sweet affair

With the boarder, Stanley Smythe,

They both attended his funeral

And she leant upon his arm,

And held the wake with a Currant cake

At Stanley’s father’s farm.

 

Then Kevin struggled within his bonds

And tried to say, ‘Not true!’

But then his favourite daughter came

Quite suddenly into view,

She stole the funeral money he’d

Been keeping in a jar,

Then jumped on into his Thunderbird

And drove off with his car.

 

She let her idiot boyfriend in

To sit behind the wheel,

But all he could see were dollar signs

And a car he’d like to steal,

He dropped her off at a candy shop

Drove off and left his Pam,

While only a half a mile away

He ended under a tram.

 

Kevin suffered a minor fit

At the wreck of his pride and joy,

But didn’t suffer a single qualm

At the death of the stupid boy,

His job had gone to a minor clerk,

Dumped records in the bin,

The careful working of twenty years

That he’d spent compiling them.

 

Then Stanley got at his savings and

He frittered them away,

His wife was clueless, she let him sell

The house he’d slaved to pay,

The future, once he had gone was not

The thing he’d visualised,

He strained and screamed at the Techs,

‘Just get this thing from off my eyes!’

 

He staggered home in a mood and took

Some gas from out the car,

Splashed it around the house, and took

The cash from the funeral jar,

He threw a match and it all went up

Though he didn’t know or care,

That his wife and Stan were up above

When the flames went up the stair.

 

He jumped on into the Thunderbird

And went for a long, last ride,

Along the Beachside Boulevard,

And once he had stopped, he died!

They’ve banned the use of the Prescient Vest

With a raft of bills and laws,

‘The future needs to be locked,’ they said,

‘For the damage it might cause!’

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Tate Morgan]

Well i dont suppose many of us would be happy with the legacies we leave behind. Perhaps it is better to just hope to change one single soul for the better .That in time will drop like a domino effecting another and another till it sweeps across the open plain and off around the world Bringing light to the darkness.

[Marie]

Indeed, the future does need to be locked.It's hidden from us for a reason.