skraeling island.

Mind, I am in some kind of hell
All of my own making.
This frontal lobe will soon burst
Cramped in familiar vices,
Preoccupied with worries beyond my words.
And I wish I was away from these idiot people
And their idiot lives full of
Idiotic things exaggerated to the heights of gods.

Idiots of the world: get a room
And leave my idiot self alone, ta
Your demands make my mind cramp
And my guts submit and surrender
All this shit I've accumulated
In listening to your draining monologues.

And how I despise all my sisters and brothers
Who call me names and who have driven me
Back here to skraeling island,
Back here to my adopted family and illegitimate children.
In the colony's club-house there,
Stirred by the raw and syrupy fire-water,
I stood on a broken stool and cleared my throat
(The locals were shocked: I'd been
Morosely silent all my life)
And declared:

We are not beautiful
We are the last of a tribe of
Asexual atheistic robots.
We have no skills to share.
No talent for communication.
We sit about gawping at lights
Whilst digesting sugars.
Punished to terminally doubt
All fidelity of good deeds.

They clapped and cheered dementedly.