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Mister Mori thought I’d find you eerie
with your tepid flesh and passive face.
In your assembly I see naught but beauty
sans the animal flaws of the feminine race.

Your polymer skin is smooth as bisque,
your eyes a cerulean unseen in Nature.
Swains may recoil from servo whir and whisk;
the deus of your machina’s my favorite feature.

Your hardwired love is steadfast, unflinching,
though I’m a toadish sinner, obese and aging.
I smashed all my mirrors, dreading my reflection
but you swept up the shards with perky affection:

“Your credit is perfect ... no reason to worry!
Death is for losers. Let’s buy your new body!”

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