Sitting at my desk,
Pushing pen,
Counting to ten,
Thinking when,
Will the robot arrive,
And drive,
Me from my seat,
Onto the street.

I’d known since last year,
The fear
That my career,
Would disappear,
And a lump of metal,
Would soon settle,
A clunking bear,
Clearly seen,
With a touch screen,
In place,
Of a face

The bosses think it’s great,
A robot state,

No minimum wage,
No unions that rage,
When things aren’t right
Work day and night,
Don’t eat,
Don’t drink,
Don’t think,
And always in the pink,

We thought that robots,
Would take working class jobs,
But the paradox is that bots,
Are very fast and logical,
With complex calculations,
But not very biological,
As they have less perception,
And mobility than a baby prodigal.

White collar jobs like mine,
Were once safe and fine,
But are now on the line,
Not by design,
To consign,
The middle class,
Out to grass,
Or to be discrete,
And compete,
For zero hours contracts.

Millions of people displaced,
Replaced,
Disgraced
Lives wasted,
Poverty tasted,
No tweets,
Of life on the streets.

Obscene amounts,
In off-shore bank accounts,
In a deep hole,
Millions on the dole,
But we could all relax,
With a robot tax.