The machine works day
and night and day.
Never shuts up,
has nothing to say.
.
Imperious, he strides
and stalks and hunts.
Tedious pursuit;
it's distraction he wants.
.
Liberty from
the insipid life
That everyone leads,
amaranthine strife.
.
On disorder, he thrives,
disturbance, a game.
Boredom, his foe,
monotony, his bane.
.
They're all so dim
and dull and dense.
They're blind to the facts,
lacking in sense.
.
You've but to use logic!
Your thoughts don't progress.
"That man is dead."
Obviously, yes!
.
If you'd just shut your mouth
(you're on the wrong track),
you're putting me off,
so please turn your back.
.
It must be so stale
inside those thick heads.
Grey matter is wasted
in old flower beds.
.
The machine is unfeeling
and callous and cruel.
What is human life
but emotion and fuel?
.
The machine is methodic:
observe and deduce.
The average brain flounders
and pains from misuse.