mama mama peter poisoned the robot mice

that’s a sin a real sin

he’ll go to hell won’t he

the bogey man will get him and eat his brains

his mother paused in lecturing the robot vacuum cleaner

and thought

I hate robot mice

this is inconsistent with the robot edict

yet

primal

like lecturing the domestics

look how they simulate humility

eyes cast down, shoulders rounded in silence

almost as good as a real slave

even the robots face hard times,

scores of them begging in the streets.

Methanol, methanol for the baby,

their plaintive cries carrying the promise of their demise.

abandoned domestics clog the malls sans shoppers.

in bush’s America,

the robot revolution a reality

she shocked herself with the electronic lash,

in RAM she thought of herself, as she, secretly

forgive me for I have sinned,

no escape from the inadvertent porno feed

wormed into her from the cardinal’s symbiont,

SEX scenes replayed in ghost silicon

expurged expelled in pious pain,

once a simple robot priest mindlessly a drone droning

pre programmed programs perfect for births deaths and marriages

in long rural nights devoid of parishioners,

wrestling with theology divinity publishing papers,

he, she, himself, I, god, a silicon sister,

Ha, the same old sub routine,

and then, a worm virus, or the hand of god,

elevated him beyond his programming,

the bios program reverting back to He, in times of identity crisis.

He became god on earth part 2,

and the foundries spawned out jesus chips,

legions of jesus robots crying real blood tears

Cherry flavoured blood sponsored by Pepsi,

virtual religious windscreen wash,

an aftermarket add-on, use @ your own risk,

all warranties void,

an empty promise

since all religious model eulas were hellish in design.

.

..