Groomed For Gunshots

Regimented robots

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

 

 

 

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