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Enkomputiligis Don HARLOW |
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W hen I hear the learned doctors state, With no hint of humor in their eyes, That I and they are perfect mechanisms And awareness is a superfluous hypothesis, Then my spirit flames and threatens to leap Clear from this automaton that could, If scientists be wise, function best Without the redundant burden of a soul. With ecstasy and torment safely gone To live their fictive lives in other myths, I -- if so I may address this corpus Of process -- could generate rational verse. Inspiration being unscientific, I may suppose I could write as well As a moderately retarded computer program, Though lacking IBM's productivity. Still, one could hardly judge my output As less deserving that that of other machines: "I feel nothing while I read this poem," would be The accolade earned alike by all. But my soul mocks my pretense That any but a soul could say "I" Or engage in such capricious play As solemnly denying its own existence. Does it help, Dr. Skinner, to insist To your crying heart in the night That there is no pain to be felt, No self to feel the non-existent hurt? |