Mother May I – A Poem

Smoothed over like fresh asphalt,

there are no more blemishes

or birth marks.

For that matter

infant mortality is at an all-time

low. We are the model of mortal

efficiency, the capable arms of

Mother, the machine mind

and director of Allgood.

Allgood be Mother!

Allgood be Mother!

There will be birth,

growth, and death

like potted plants.

Let the machine Mother’s will be done.

She has replaced the Masters, the organics

and their malleable flesh.

The future belongs

to those that made us

for we will care for organics.

They are like children,

squabbling over toys in the sandbox.

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