(or Erin's Song, unfinished circa. 1973)
past, where Erin grew
Fared not too well against robot odds;
The time had come as we shall skew
Where wealth presumed upon new gods;
Merchants new to prosperity,
Clothed in furs of Beaver's in wide range,
Nestled their stores against the lee
Were like honey to flies but man's melange.
towns upon the robot shores,
Groomed for themselves a new Robot Host,
And gave them charge to steal from their stores,
When the Prosperer's envy consumed their coast.
homes of gold were girth
With confettied tiles dabbed on walls like crimson lace;
No greater town had greater worth
Than the bejeweled villas of the Prosperity Chase.
cleaning machines bore more,
Holding to breasts of chromium and embossed,
Machines shining and geared for the chore
Fear I too become the Salesman's loss.
churning with oily pitch
Soon were launched against the town,
Led by none other than the worst of all, Ivanovitch
Whose title of deeds would become renown.
to gorge new won wealth,
Ivan's gang deployed a new force;
"I'll squeeze them more," he counseled himself,
"The town'll depend even more upon my robots' chores!"
new robots then buzzed and blinked,
Gurgled and burped, bleeped and hummed;
Then they spun around, and their antennae winked,
They coughed and sputtered and then became benumbed.
who bought them cried in great despair,
"Ivan Ivanovitch our sales are lost!
Fix these robots which need repair;
Please fix them now – at any cost!"
plastic paw pressed his pointed chin,
Glassy eyes perceiving their plight;
His cold steely plates then rattled the deadly din
His iron nerves were anxious to exercise their might!
he clicked, "Yer in my debt,
Fixing all of these robots will cost a lot;
You'll have to pay through the teeth, by Ma'homet,
Twice the fee or else I'll just let them rot!"
ruined all," the merchants wailed;
Oil seeped down Ivan's steely chin;
Ivan glowered against the faces paled
As he drained each merchant's register bin.
then passed until Ivan returned;
New robots he brought, even for other chores;
The merchants moaned, bewailed, and churned;
Ivan's sold them his Custom Cleaning Corps!
bearings and spark displays
Closed upon the hapless mass;
Ivan grinned gratefully in the malaise,
As he plotted extortions more he'd bring to pass!
robots must sell this Corps of mine
From counter to counter, store to store;
Let's fill the homes; we've little time,
So machines we'll find door to door!"
soon it came for salesmen, peddlers, and all
Who filled dusty shelves with brazen pans;
Upon antique stores no more would anyone call,
Since buyers hence bought just from Ivan's stands.
block to block, the buzz, the buzz, and the clang,
The clickity clack, the rolling wheels,
The shinny armor, the whip and whang,
Were callous chefs cooking meals;
peddlers of old were now too feeble to cry
Yet called their youth to save the day.
But all but Erin feared with Ivan to vie
To let the robots have their way!
counting done, the old was lost,
Erin alone rebelled at heart;
The robot chests so heavily embossed
Had turned the times and forced Erin to depart;
readied his ship with a loyal few
Who feared Ivan's maddening pace,
And set out to find Fidibert the king, with his forces new,
Who'd rid us of Ivan's Ivanovitch's great disgrace!
(background from a tile from Cicero's house)
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Copyright © 1997-2014 Mel Copeland. All rights reserved.