Once a man,
toiling away,
a simple man,
in his own way,
one could see,
when he made thee,
glistening brows,
furrowed in thought,
of machine and man,
and what could be,
a bolt tightened,
a spring sprung,
and at night,
not out of spite,
kittens snuggle,
puppies tumble,
a veritable wonderland,
mechanistic delight,
the automaton,
meant for joy,
twas right,
where it belonged.
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