11 September 2012

Tuesday Poem: Prove You Are Not A Robot, by P. S. Cottier

Prove that you are not a robot.
Affirm android is what you're not.
Prick a digit, we'll watch the blood flow
(though nanovamps may swim, and grow).
Indicate a lack of chips embedded -
that you are only fleshy headed,
with just the right amount of brain
to reason, love and feel all pain.
Now fill in the code that we select -
words unknown to mortal intellect.
Quickly, for we're losing time -
our batteries run down at nine.

Credit Note: This is an original poem by P. S. Cottier and is published here by permission of the author - and if you have not already done so, you should check out her blog.

Tim Says: The first time I saw the command to "Prove that you are not a robot", I suffered a prolonged period of existential dread. Might I, in fact, be a robot? Might there be telltale signs? How could I prove I wasn't?

P. S. Cottier did something more useful. She wrote a poem - and here it is. I really like it.

The Tuesday Poem: One does not simply walk into The Tuesday Poem. One clicks.


Penelope said...

'They think a she-human composed the poem!'
'These mortals are fools! Have they never heard of the Poetbot3000?'

AJ Ponder said...

Nice. A perfect counterpoint to "I am a robot..."

Please congratulate PS Cottier on her fleshly status and the fun poem. Now for the difficult part - this robot must prove it is not what it is - by bashing carefully orchestrated clockwork against the keyboard.

Helen McKinlay said...

Aha I wondered when a poem was coming on this topic :-)Now Imust struggle with ammisol guffal or oridera to prove I can read. I choose

Tim Jones said...

Thanks, Poetbot3000, A J and Helen! And now I'm off to hunt down John Connor. After that, I'll be back.

Michelle Elvy said...

Did you find him, Tim?

Fun thing here... and yes, I can appreciate the existential dread. I used to do this thing (not a robot-thing but an existential-dread-thing) where, when driving down a busy road I'd imagine (unintentionally) going off the road and then I'd wonder that perhaps I had not imagined it at all but that I had gone off the road and that this suspended state of believing I was still driving was really just an extension of some kind of kink in memory -- a hang-up in the brain due to our inability to grasp traumatic reality... so even if I was already dead in my mind I was still driving down the road, and I'd wonder when that would finally end... I am still wondering, I suppose.