My runway is a narrow flat purgatory,
coming to life each time I'm gonna move my lips.
My young robot-ladies are marching sinuously,
trampling on death highways, unmercifully.
I feed them with diamonds and crystalline ice,
served by doomy footmen with remote-drive-eyes.
I quench them with gold wines and unearthly rain,
born in royal black halls, islands of pain.
A beautiful day, the audience go wild,
my sex robot-girls are starting the show in
a beautiful way, the moment has come,
shivers running down the spine, shock music whirl,
A beautiful day, the audience afraid
my fiend robot-girls are spoiling the fun in
a beautiful way, the last final shot
draws a line between the androids and the crowd.
Dull preys are collapsing and their empty glance
remains pretty unchanged, lifeless, on a trance.
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by Dickinson