Short Term Plan Poem by Mary Champion

How gleefully they seize the chance
to swap us for machines,
hoping that it will enhance
their dividends obscene.

But, when most the human race
is destitute and poor,
there will be no market place
to sell in anymore.

Robots don't go shopping,
as any fool could tell,
but still, there is no stopping
this mad stampede to hell.

Like lemmings on a mission,
our suicidal breed,
makes ill-advised decisions
impelled by endless greed.

We moan about the system,
the chat-bots and the rest,
but don't try to resist ‘em,
assume that they know best.

When ATM's were introduced,
back in the mists of time,
ev'rybody was seduced.
It really was sublime. -

Banks weren't user friendly,
so it seemed a good idea,
and thus, they wooed us gently
until we got to here.

Now ev'ry shop in ev'ry town
is manned by dumb machines
that do not smile when you feel down
or chat about your dreams.

We may not spend so long in queues
but think of all the time
we waste on phone calls while we choose
the least unhelpful line.

How can we work the system so
we hear a human speak
who won't just answer ‘yes' or ‘no'
and understands our pique?

Yet, when they hold elections
and we briefly win the ball,
we choose the same old options,
or do not vote at all.