Down in the Dirt

We made them. Here is their song: “Dangerous robots, ready to roll / Dangerous robots, go go go / Drink some oil, then clash and slap / Swallow it down: that tree-born sap.” We programmed them to pester bishops. They look like vandalized mechanical disco chicks. “What’s your name?” the unsuspecting bishop asks. And the bots answer: “My name rhymes with asteroid belt — can you guess what it is?” “No, what’s your name,” asks the bishop. “Do you give up? Then I will tell you,” say the bots: “My name is Hot Patty Melt. I work doorboy at hotel.” “These dangerous robots are cold like the smaller intestines of a pig served for food,” cries the bishop: “they might help me trap my children.” But the bots now kill the doll and burn the manger. They shit in the straw; then drink a Pabst and fire out some words. They push the bishop down into the soil.