Robot Boy, Censored Version
So robots write poetry now. Here's what I think of that.
Yer shiny enough, Robot Boy
Yer hard as a shard of rock
You never run out of energy
You and yer digital clock
Sex isn’t problematic
There isn’t an issue, you know
Just wipe you off with a dampened cloth
And then you’re good to go
I don’t love you, Robot Boy
You’re not my one and only
I keep you in the cupboard just
For moments when I’m lonely
But now a ghost in the machine
Has affected yer circuitry
Ridiculous algorithms making
Mechanical poetry
You’re hardly a Parker or Larkin
Your verse gets much worse with each byte
I have to tell you, Robot Boy
Yer poetry’s hogwash, alright?
You’re not making me juices flow
With yer hexadecimal rant
Where’s the amo amas amat
Amamus amatis amant
Where’s the chuffing soul in it
It’s far too formulaic
Give me an unexpected twist
And something a bit archaic
Oh, yer metre’s simply textbook
Get you with yer perfect pentameters
Adhering to all the rules of form
Within the expected parameters
There’s no chuffing joy in it, Robot Boy
In yer tedious black and white
Oh, you’ve cracked me one off one about rainbows (yawn)
Bet that’s an interesting write
It’s not like you want to woo me
You’re programmed to say it like this
There’s zero soul in yer empty words
That leave me as cold as your kiss
You’re not a poet, Robot Boy
Yer not Shelley, or Byron, or Wilde
You’ve never screamed in the wild winds
Or dreamed the world as a child
I’m just going to dump you, Robot Boy
Calculate that, methinks
‘Cos you turn me off with yer binary thing
And frankly, yer poetry stinks
© Gail Foster 2016
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