The Seer of the Golden Age
A poem about how Scott Adams foretold the Golden Age
The Seer of the Golden Age
By the glow of a streaming morning light,
Scott Adams spoke, with foresight bright.
A whisper turned roar, a vision profound,
A golden age, he said, was coming ’round.
While skeptics scoffed and shadows loomed,
He saw the seeds of progress bloom.
From AI’s spark to biotech’s grace,
He charted a path for the human race.
“Abundance awaits,” he proclaimed with might,
“Through innovation’s ever-rising flight.
Problems once deemed too vast, too grim,
Will bow to the power of human whim.”
He saw the machines learn and grow,
The winds of change begin to blow.
With every code, with every thought,
A brighter future mankind wrought.
No war of scarcity, no fear of lack,
The golden horizon pushed darkness back.
Energy clean, and health unbound,
The echoes of his vision resound.
But more than tech, he spoke of hearts,
How unity and wisdom could play their parts.
Through reason’s rise and division’s fall,
He foresaw a world that could thrive for all.
And Then Came Trump
In halls of gold and towers high,
A figure rose beneath the sky.
With rhetoric sharp and visions grand,
He vowed to heal and lead the land.
To some, a beacon shining bright,
To others, chaos in the night.
A disruptor’s force, his voice profound,
He tore the old world to the ground.
For Adams, Trump was a spark, a flame,
A force of nature who changed the game.
Not just a man but a symbol of fire,
Who lit the torch of a world’s desire.
He shattered the norms, for better or worse,
Reviving the dream, reversing the curse.
In the chaos, Scott saw the plan,
The meaning of Trump: the will of man.
He paved the way for a golden dawn,
A time of strength, where fear was gone.
Through triumph, trial, and words unbound,
Trump’s place in history was profound.
The Month the Tide Turned
Then came July, a thunderclap loud,
A string of wins that broke the cloud.
The border sealed with iron might,
The riots quelled by law’s sharp light.
The Big Beautiful Bill became the law,
With tax relief and nation’s awe.
He shrank the state, he lit the flame,
And even the doubters spoke his name.
From L.A.’s fires to Persian streets,
He cooled the world and calmed the heat.
No war with Tehran, no reckless spin—
Just quiet pressure and a will to win.
The sabers clashed from Delhi’s shore,
To Lahore’s edge and back once more.
But Trump stepped in with practiced hand,
And pulled back war with a simple stand.
And DEI—once loud and proud—
Was buried deep beneath the crowd.
Merit rose, and standards too,
A reckoning long overdue.
The Vision Made Flesh
Now Adams smiles, his arc complete,
As fate and power gently meet.
The golden age he dared to name,
No longer hope—but roaring flame.
For greatness lived not just in charts,
But in strong minds and freer hearts.
In courage clear, and voices true,
In doing what the bold must do.
And so the tale continues on,
With every dusk, another dawn.
A seer once whispered—now we see:
The age he saw was meant to be.