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On
a bleak and gloomly Saturday did that box arrive.
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Inside,
a shiny servant neither concious nor alive.
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By
it's inherent progamming, it must, upon command
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Fulfill
my every whim, every wish, every demand.
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Delighted
with my new subserviant mecha toy,
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I unpacked my machine with wonder, glee, and joy.
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A
switch activates its lifeless, silicon, A.I. mind.
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It
recieved it's first job, and finished in ample time.
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Mindlessly,
it goes now about its chores and tasks.
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It
is a true slave, for it cannot refuse the things I ask.
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And
as my dependence on the mecha-servant grew,
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My
point of living declined, as did my point of view.
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Nothing
would matter without my uncaring metal drone.
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She's
always there, and yet, I always feel alone.
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And
lonely madness did drive my heart to wild wants.
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I
embraced my metal slave. It responded with metallic taunts.
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"I'm
afraid I am not programmed for love as you demand.
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Objective
not recognized. Please input your new command."
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My
heart sank back in shock, dismay, and utter disbelief.
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I
fell down upon my knees, and to the droid expressed my grief.
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"How
can you say that after all you've done upon my will?
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How
is it I command you love me, and yet you're lifeless still?
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No
sign of recognition did it give, and my sadness turned to wrath.
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I
wielded then an ax, and in fury, hacked my droid in half.
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Electric
sparks and deadened hopes rose up in smoke and flame.
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And on the floor, in metal gore, vowed to never love machines again.
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