© 1990, by Holly Lisle
All Rights Reserved

   Shall I compare you to my microwave?
   You are reliable where it is not
   It often leaves my food too burned to save
   But when I want you hot, my love, you're hot
   Nor can the television be your equal
   With reruns, dreary gameshows, mindless soaps
   I hope we'll never see another sequel
   Unless it's through our rifles' crosshaired scope
   And men of flesh will change and slowly fade
   And lose posession of their strength and grace
   But you, who in man's finest image are made
   Will never have a wrinkle touch your face

Your passion and your lust often bewitch
   But I like you best because of your off switch.*

What can I say? I was in a very dark place in my life when I wrote this.

*To an Android Lover, previously published in Aboriginal SF Jul/Aug 1990