Being groomed for gunshots,
It wouldn’t be acceptable
To reject a less delectable
Dish if the orders were given,
And the food had been served –
Who on Earth
Did you think you were?
You’d have to learn your lesson.
And yet the revolting slop refused to obey,
It couldn’t be swallowed in any kind of way –
Stuck in the back of the throat like a lie,
Made the little robot think it was about to die
But it wouldn’t dare protest –
It would have to digest
In the preordained manner
Dictated by her captor –
The lunchtime supervisor
The gastric brutaliser.
The little robot knew exactly how many times to chew
So it didn’t get hit by the spoon
But this culinary horror
Was causing some bother
And though the robot didn’t dare comment,
It was about to vomit,
Its eyes were secreting distress
And its stomach was about to violently confess
No – it wouldn’t conform
It wouldn’t supress
Nothing would make it acquiesce
To this one request.
Then from nowhere
The jug tipped over
And the lunchtime supervisor
The gastric brutaliser
Was momentarily distracted with mopping
So the little robot’s gagging and sobbing
Could be brought to an end
By the swift swapping
Of its plate for a friend’s
Who would eat the same meal twice
And make a sacrifice
So the other little robot didn’t have to pay the price
For not finishing a meal that wasn’t nice.
Good little robots,
Groomed for gunshots.
(c) Gemma Hinton 14/6/15