V.

The poet knocked politely on the door
Then opened it and stepped into the room.
His boss was there – as she had been before –
Joined by a man in army uniform.
The poet’s skin went cold. His boss said: “Hi,
Welcome. This customer wants to discuss
Some poetry-based issues, which is why
I thought it best that you should meet with us.”
“It’s an honor,” said the man as he turned.
“I actually write poetry myself.
And speaking with your boss here, we have learned
That you are just the guy to give us help.”
He held out a short printout to the poet
Who, trembling, started slowly to read through it.

A drone that was acting on orders
Disregarded all national borders.
Its bombing of Kabul
Was most questionable.
Let's hope it got all the reporters.
A platoon of robots, quite rightly,
Found their camouflage paint most unsightly.
So they got a respray,
Then they all ran away
To a circus, where they perform nightly.
An intelligent missile wondered
If its handler might not have blundered;
It was told to kill kids,
So it put on its skids
And blew up, morally unencumbered.
There was an old general who
Had no idea of what he should do.
But he wished to get paid
So he shouted “Invade!”
Now instead of one star he's got two.

“Some of these are good,” the poet chuckled,
Instantly regretting that he thought this.
“I mean,” he stuttered, “most are not that subtle.
And…I guess not what you wanted when you bought this.”
“Indeed,” the soldier nodded. “In this purchase
We’d hoped for something more antagonistic          
And, while we value verse in the armed service,
Your AI does incline a touch artistic.”
The poet’s boss took over: “Yes, precisely.
We will find out where it became defective.
Today.” She finished, coldly and concisely,
With no doubting about what she expected.
The poet backed away, nodding his head.
“Sure. Good luck with the war!” was all he said.