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