by Nick Gisburne
His marvellous, mysterious machines,
Constructions of synthetic skin and bone,
Are coveted by seven kings, whose queens
Are statues, changed by sorcery to stone.
The strange inventor offers each a choice:
One seventh of the kingdom for their wife,
And six are more than willing. They rejoice
To welcome back the brides he brings to life.
The seventh takes the second choice instead:
A magical contraption, real enough.
The morning finds him murdered in his bed,
His queen too mean to swallow his rebuff.
She sells her seventh share for piles of gold,
A robot, rich forever, never old.
