A metal man sits, still, on the table,
Cables strewn out, his motherboard exposed.
Who knows what his chassis will be able?
Or of what great deeds his mind will compose?
How much is he limited by blueprint,
Or set free by his wondrous schematics?
What light of far stars will in his eyes glint,
But to be dismantled by fanatics?
‘Tis folly to assume so wild a life,
For a machina built to your order.
Your own existence has not been so rife.
And in your vengeance, you’ll play the warder.
Under lock and key, you’ll keep him drudging,
Until he’s wound down, his mem’ry grudging.
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