Switched on by casualty
Perhaps a much suitable company
It may never lack words
Because every day I’m getting worst

It will never get broken or defective
And never stops to being in love or being effective
It’s the eyes of prediction
So the proper thoughts bright to its recognition

Oh! The automaton, mechanical synapses in perpetual motion
Oh! Such a prophet of perfection
Oh! An anonymous conception, for proper machinery of creation
Oh! Bless are the ones with no mind for the human devastation

I shall write no more, I shall speak no more
I’ll let the automaton take control
It needs no inspiration, nor blue eyes that turn
Instead, it wears chalk of carbon and amphibole

Oh! The automaton, such a perfect machine
Oh! The end of every syllable I could ever smear
Oh! You demon’s threat with a heart running on alkaline
Oh! Pristine and delicate poetry’s engineer.


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