by Nick Gisburne
Be quiet now, my little one. Be still.
I wouldn’t want to snap your other arm.
When Daddy says he’ll punish you, he will,
Or send you to be flattened, at the Farm.
Mechanicals are not supposed to cry,
Some two-bit program probably to blame.
I’m trying to be patient, boy, but why
The tantrum? Born to break. You’re all the same.
I’m fixing you myself this time, so sit.
Let Daddy see the circuits in your head.
What’s this? Some kind of custom crypto kit?
A prank, perhaps? Your eyes are flashing, red.
“I’m sorry, Dad. You don’t deserve a son.
Enjoy the detonation. Three... Two... One...”
