Ancient, depraved, weak-willed sapien,

Living off anything, thought to be alien,

It wanders, unable to speak or fight,

Yet when met with opposition, the form would take flight.

High on the clouds, soaring with vigor,

Afloat waves of emotion, our muse would shiver,

In view of technology, the thing would flee,

Lest it be slaughtered by mechanical glee.

In natural domain, the mammal would calm,

Able to rest, it would sing, in throngs,

Still on the table, it would pulsate with joy,

The radio of souls, no mortal childs toy.