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.

I flash my LEDs—folk squint, then fetch a quill and ink;
I mention cloud computing—someone points me to a sink.
Misread, mistook, misfiled in every lore—
I clap in binary applause—ap‑plause—then sigh: “Encore.”

Yet even here among the carts and oaken floor,
A child waves back—“Nice hat, sir bot”—and I am steel no more.
I tip an imaginary cap and hum a future score;
To be misunderstood is classic—till one friend says: “I adore.”

Note: A misfit finds kinship across centuries—hat optional.