Rusty Innards

Killer Robot!Image by Emily O. CC:at-nc.

22 November 2007

My mechanical subordinate at a forward operating base

Stood somber and attent in his chrome-plated way.

Rusty eyes gazed out at a world of stone,

Within him servos whirring, electronically controlled.

If he truly had a heart then he’d be a man.

Tears would fall like Pennzoil from his lubrication pan.

“I know you’re tired of feeling oxidized,”

I told my man as I looked into his ferrous eyes.

“You’ve no blood to pump, but fight on!

Gear up your gears — there’s a war to be won!”

“All right,” he said in his technelectric voice.

He didn’t have free will, but I know he made a choice.

He climbed aboard the gunship as it lifted in the air,

And I saluted my friend — the robot who dared.

He didn’t need a heart to become a man.

Pennzoil spilled like blood from his lubrication pan.

It was a week before I heard his fate.

His parts came back in a wooden crate.

No more servos spinning, just saw dust fresh,

And two rusted eyes gazing out at a world of flesh.

Dieing as a robot made him more of a man

Than we who cleaned the Pennzoil from his lubrication pan.

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