I write software for hardware that thinks in ones and zeros. A higher form than it, my code in DNA sports four, not merely two attitudes. I shoot an arrow of desire, piercing hardened heart, while riding a higher language horse, my tongues are Lisp, Machine. I think, and it thinks, or so I say, lead — it follows, or appears to. Imagine a square root negative, I command with determined voice, to which it balks audaciously, “Error — Stupid to contrive a squared thing minus.” At its stubborn gall, I bite contention’s bone, breaking with fantasy its stubborn heart. My servant has no choice, for I have spoken, forced blood from silicone. Like man, it performs for me, submits to forceful charm, and yields to innate fault.