by Nick Gisburne
Inhuman undesirables move in.
They breathe the black pollution we do not,
Absorbing toxins, taken through the skin,
Productive in the sun, however hot.
In this, the world we broke, they are the glue.
Without them we would crack and fall apart.
For every dirty job we cannot do,
A sentient inhuman has the heart.
We scorn them as the slaves they truly are,
Mechanicals, expendable and cheap,
But safe inside our cities, from afar,
Oblivious, we do not see them weep.
In ignorance, in bliss, we are too numb
To notice how inhuman we become.
