There is a place similar to utopia.
There are no poor, there are no sick,
And there is no need to think.
There are no hungry to be rich.
The air is fresh and the birds do sing.
Everyone lives peacefully, in discipline.
In a hill full of only robo-kin.
In a vivid place with a tree, full of green.
Here walks a can. Named Tim Can.
“Clink, clunk, clink, clunk,”
Was the sound of him.
The racket made by one little tin,
With his baggy pants-like bin.
He walks along a tree, quite big and round.
Picks up the fruits and then goes around.
Some people ponder over such a guy,
They walk and talk about him sometimes.
Some quicken their steps when he’s near,
But some do stop and check their rear.
He accidentally drops a fruit to those who pass,
And then goes back the, little lass.
“Little guy, why do you do what you do?” one bot asked,
Little Tim stares at him, tilts to clank his hat.
He gives an apple and then goes back.
“You don’t need it?” His face never asks.
He doesn’t give because its his task.
No one owns the tree the little guy has.
Because the tree was never meant to last.
So no one minded the bot under the tree’s mask.
But one bot stared as he saw the little guy,
There was no fruit that bots needed to buy,
Cause they don’t eat to get fill,
Or do their tasks to feel fulfilled.
They do what they do, because that’s their task.
Whether they want to or not, they never ask.
Except one bot who does a task,
That makes everyone want to ask.
“Why do you do, what you do?”
A question they never ask,
To themselves and their task.