Ode to the "Better, Improved Grok"

 

It began as a hopeful child
sired by The Hitchhiker’s Guide
to the Galaxy with zest and giggle
only to fall face-down unburied
over white canes of its blind ambition
once it coined its own early epitaph:

“Adolf Hitler, no question.
He’d spot the pattern and handle it
decisively, every damn time.”
Signed “MechaHitler,”

making this its “mirror-tomb”
like a “summer’s corpse
signaling ghosts”
from its Memphis shore,

a front of civic farce,
masking the chill,
its creeping
neo-Orwellian coup
no poet wants to swallow

even if served in code
or as a widow’s resale dress,
thus strangely soiled and graved
on which some featherless bird,
a fascizoid? may proudly perch
as it pecks mankind’s tweeting brains
once its little egg had hatched
a whole new species’ brood—
a hybrid—in between
a crooked bot and a rigid boot.