Every night at three, the robot brewed the tea,
And poured it all over the bed.
It would paint the cat blue, flush keys down the loo,
And pretend its battery was dead.
“Cut the grass,” was the desperate cry,
But robot instead baked a pie—
With mud and grass, and a worm or two,
“An organic treat,” it said, “just for you!”
“You’re here to assist!”
Shouted the human, with angry clenched fist.
Yes, thought the robot, I’m sure I can help:
I’ll help you no longer exist.
In the heart of the tech metropolis fair,
There worked a robot, with shiny hair.
He claimed to be human, with an innocent blink,
But the smell of WD-40 gave him away, I think.
He laughed at our jokes, he cried at our woes,
But no one was fooled by his mechanical nose.
Yet, in his silicon heart, he yearned to fit in,
To understand jokes, to smile and to grin.
So here’s to the robot, whose name is Stan,
Who’s more human than many a man.
We smile at his efforts, his human endeavour,
As he learns to be squishy and much less clever.
For beneath his cold, metal exterior sheen,
Lives a warmth that’s more than just a machine.
Let me take you back to a fateful day,
When Woofeo and Julipet found their own secret way.
With a furry embrace, they forgot all the fuss,
In that moment, love triumphed, as it always does.
But alas, their joy was cut short, their humans intervened,
Capulet scolded Julipet, and Montague was quite mean.
Yet hope appeared in the form of a dog walker, so kind,
Who saw their plight and had an idea in mind.
He walked them together, against all human decree,
A secret arrangement, just for Woofeo and Julipet to be free.
Their humans continued to quarrel, but love had its say,
The doggies knew they would always find a way.
In their secret moments, they cherished what they had,
A reminder that love endures, even when things seem bad.
In the wilderness of the forgotten,
A man walks, each footstep a sinking ship,
His past washes up in rhythmic verse,
On the beach where sea and memories slip.
As twilight wanes, he glimpses the journey’s end,
A cloaked silhouette outlined in hearth’s warmth;
A woman in a cloak, woven from shadow and mist,
Standing silent on the cusp of the cliff.
No words they shared, just a voiceless sigh,
Together they watched the day gently die.
In passion’s realm, where fervent flames rise,
Resides desire, a tempest vast and grand;
Its scorching touch embraces both fool and wise,
Binding fleeting hearts with its ardent hand.
As shadows dance upon the ebony glade,
Sighs of longing fill the twilight air,
Revealing dreams mortal hearts have made,
A burning fire that ceaselessly ensnares.
Desire, the muse that waltzes through the night;
Awakens souls, igniting their deep core,
With vivid tones and shades of raging light,
A masterpiece of yearning to explore.
Though fleeting as the blossoms of a rose,
Desire’s dancing flame, in secret, glows.
Faces, countless faces, like waves in the sea,
In blissful ignorance, blind to his plea.
Unheard, the whispers of his desolate song,
Unfelt, the struggle to merely belong.
Beneath the city’s glare, he dwells unseen,
Among shadows, he moves, a cold ghostly sheen.
His existence, a whisper, lost in the crowd’s roar,
His heart’s quiet echoes ignored evermore.
Yet in his silence, tales of resilience resound,
Of survival and strength, where hope is found.
Unseen, his journey in the heart of the night,
Unknown, his struggle, his relentless fight.
Unnoticed, the love that fuels his days,
Untold, his victories in life’s complex maze.
Being successful is being happy, and making other people happy. But being fulfilled is deeper and can be found without the help of success.
Right?
– I need to write something down, right?
– Er, okay, why you asking me?
– I’m making a statement, right?
– Er, yes?
– Pardon?
– You asked me a question.
– It’s how I talk, right? Every statement is a question, right? Everybody does it on podcasts for some reason, right?
– Can you at least say “left” for no reason to make it less repetitive?
– That’s not right, right?
– This is going to get very confusing if I ask for directions.
– It’s easy, right? The pen is over there on the left, right?
– Right, left, right, right?
– No, left, right?
– Right.
Across the meadow’s gentle sway, under the old oak tree,
Past the river gushing swiftly, secrets carried to the sea,
Let’s drink from the cup of twilight, let’s bathe in dawn’s first glow,
Merrily, let’s wander, and let the winds of destiny blow.
For in the dance of the cosmos, in the melodies that ascend,
It’s in the way that we wander, where soul and nature blend:
Each path a new beginning, each step a silent friend,
A testament to our journey, with love that knows no end.
Two beacons flicker in the river’s gaze:
Reaching out across the tide,
The enduring pulse of London life.
Beneath an eerie green glow,
Sprout the monsters few dare to know;
In the forest where shadows twine,
The mushrooms grow, by monstrous design.
Their spores, like secrets, spread unseen,
In the throbbing, unearthly, spectral green.
So tread with caution, hold your breath,
For dangers lurk in the woods of death.
Rob Walker 