Redundant

A sterile, quiet, effective team

They are inhumane; working for nothing like machines

Yet they can work as a man!

They were made by man

Trained into perfect technique and rhythm

They can work as we have done!

So long, slaving over our product

We asked little; the bare necessities

We have been given little in return; a happy cycle

Our friends cover their sneers with thin sympathy

The members of a higher legion

We are now the underclass

They have no need!

No pregnant wife!

No hungry children!

They have no want for holiday or comradeship

They work day and night- and demand nothing in return

They are ultimate in their purpose.

Fast, whirring, and quicker they go

Should they not be living a child’s life?

This team, this furious, writhing, terrible team

It makes us nothing, as we make nothing

Redundancy is its name.