You failed the carbon test,
                   along with your professors,
                   whose knowledge nailed
                   a jawbone to your skull.
                   But you run still, operate alone:
                   through crannied walls, bookstalls,
                   simpering symposia
                   you ram your polished bone.

                   You chin yourself upon the lever
                   of your angled jaw;
                   unfastened from your skull
                   it cleavered scholars,
                   slew more men than Samson's bone:
                   they bled ink into a billion books
                   and died horribly—of radiation
                   from your young isotopes.

                   But you lurch on, whirring and clicking:
                   O automated fossil, when
                   will your "receding, ape-like chin"
                   quiver with kindness?
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