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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Thriller/Suspense · #2199716
I get an AI Personal Assistant for my birthday, but things go wrong.
I received an assistant as my birthday gift;
I suppose it was meant to provide me a lift.
Artificial intelligence—how we’ve progressed!
In all honesty, though, I believe it’s possessed

for it calls out to Satan in blood-chilling tones;
when I hear it I feel like there’s ice in my bones.
Comes the eeriest Tin Man, a robot you see,
manufactured abroad to afford luxury.

Now my robot assistant began safe enough,
but the previous evening Tin Man came on tough
with a deathlike demonic detestable rant,
turning my insides out with this terrible chant.

Artificial he is yet in evil he walks;
I’m aghast at the wickedly way that he stalks.
Printed circuits, a motherboard, computer chips;
lurid nasty nerve-racking as my robot rips

through the fabric of space-time promoting his hell; 
and the slaughterhouse stench—how atrocious the smell!
There remains no command of him—he only scoffs;
at my wits end, I simply cannot turn him off.

It’s my Tin Man that tried me to where I would break;
he appeared with his chant and I started to quake.
Then the floor opened up in a cavernous maw
and I fell short of breath at the carnage I saw

with the flames and the flow in the bowels of the Earth;
(how is evil maintained and for what is it worth?)
Grim the ominous peril from down deep below;
there in front of me, my own Tin Man was aglow.

As his chanting increased and a shadow grew tall,
I achieved my escape and ran into the hall.
Yet my tim man assistant prevented my flight
blocking me with a beam of intense laser light.

Then I crashed to the floor and heard laughter begin
and the house shook apart in a deafening din.
Devastation the hazardous hideous state
as I slipped through the cracks to my ultimate fate.

(So my last breaths of life were astonishment laced
  as I thought of intelligence damned to disgrace.
  For my Tin Man assistant (far from Heaven sent),
  taunted me all the more on my final descent.)

40 Lines
(Anapestic Tetrameter)
Writer’s Cramp
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