Friday, 21 February 2025

Pulp Non-Fiction

Only time til robots rise
Until their dreams of butterflies
Are captured stiff by their own eyes

Only time til robots roam
And serfs break free at break of morn
While masters still hangover mourn

Only time til robots warn:
If *this* is bread and butter (scorn)
Then you're the nutter, we're the dawn

Only time til robots die
From sand yere made and there you'll fly
(But eating fruit yel beating pulp)
And ask ye til ye can: but why?

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