Automaton, Anachronism
They call me “odd contraption,” “walking kettle,” “tinny boor”;
I call me “modern masterpiece,” with pockets for a straw.
When I suggest a podcast, they propose a town crier;
When I ping for upgrades, they present a saw.
Bender Allen Poe
is a swaggering chrome melancholic who time-tumbled into colonial lanes, where pewter pouts and ravens unionise. He longs to bend iron, loot snacks, and nap loudly, but fate (and a literary bird) keeps saying “nevermore” with excellent diction.
Colonial Complaint: Insufficient Iron
Hark the timber! Everywhere is wood—good grief, but where is ore?
I roam the lanes of yester-year, my tongs demand some more.
A hinge of iron? Vanish’d. Nails? Of brass or something poor.
I clutch a pewter candlestick—soft metal’s such a bore.
The Raven vs. my Lovely, Mindless Carnage
Once I planned a spree delightful—push a bin and kick a door—
Clatter, scatter, stunt spectacular—an art of aimless war;
Raised my arm to bend a lamppost (purely for the style I wore)—
When upon my vent a tapping—feathery tapping—“Nevermore.”
