Manifesto

Here's my list of Christmas wishes:
Robot, you will do the dishes,
and while I remain a bard
do some work on the backyard:

Leaves need blowing, overflowing
grass obscured, no longer showing
Logs need splitting, time permitting,
while I write my poems, sitting.

Also, too late for the turkey,
long ago reduced to jerky
but the Christmas table ham
cooked, while I read Sam I am

would be perfect. Inspiration,
two-thirds, they say, perspiration,
I'm concerned, however clever,
Robot won't help the endeavor,

and I might be forced to labor,
or worse yet, to greet a neighbor.
Compare selfies, sing, and carol,
ugly sweater, my apparel…

Unacceptable, I tell you.
So dear Robot, I compel you,
yes, dear Robot, set me free.

Too bad, Robot, you are me.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to GPT