In a lonely part of the wood
by the side of the hunting trail
under far off screams of riders
whimpers of bloodhounds
and cries of the week's prey
my master lies bent and broken
pinned by his gigantic steed
shot dead by accident
with a rifle of sport

You see
I am too weak to aid you, sir
having been kept by you
in this hideous state
as a behavioural experiment
a Skinnerite I am
a perfect Pavlovian
a weak soul
capable of action only on command

Ring a bell, sir
and I might summon aid from others

You lie dying
anxious to steal another breath
and then another
and yet another
you know it can't go on
this shadow of death
hanging about your head
cannot disappear
at the ring of a bell as I

There now
breathe more deeply
but quickly
you have few chances left
you who have warped me
through your bizarre studies
but of course
you undertook them all
in the name of humanity
for the sake of humanity
in search of a control of humanity
I have been brutally isolated

It is this newly created humanity
that stares at you now
with your eyes bulging
tongue gagging forth in
unpleasant blueness
shall I tell you
how twisted and swollen
your right leg is

All you have to do
is ring the bell, sir
and help is on the way
that is how I was trained
in the name of humanity
you have created a robot
of unerring obedience