The precogs strive and stretch and sweat -
their eyes are red, their brows are wet.
But they haven't got the picture yet
on their cerebral TV set.

The precogs tune and seek and fish,
some curse the dark, some make a wish -
but they haven't built a radar dish
to catch a future echo's swish.

The precogs drift and doubt and dream,
some seek the sky, some swim the stream.
But they haven't figured out a scheme
to milk the future of its cream.

O Precogs, can you stand and wait?
Your calling's old, your load is great
but you may never know your fate
if future's past and you're too late.