I read sixty pages of Sci-Fi
As weather was inclment.
I was on the sofa
Graduated from the floor.

In those pages of science fiction
There was drunken robot's broken brain.
The robot felt remorseful sorrow 
For its shameful malfunction, sometimes I felt the same.

Before I read sixty pages of Sci-Fi
I had a drunken robot's broken brain.
Which endlessly circled pits of selenium
In a parallel shameful malfunction.

I am not so remorseful but there is sorrow
For the solution is never plain.
To sometimes knowing you feel the same
As a drunken robot's broken brain.