Les Hommes Automates Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

Rhyme Scheme: AA BBAACCDDEEFFGGHH IIDJKLLAAMMNN LLAAKKOO BBPPQQRRRAA

We are persuaded that this our artificial man will not only walk and speak and perform most of the outward functions of animal life but being wound up once a week will perhaps reason as well as most of your country parsons Memoirs of Martinus ScriblerusA
chap xiiA
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It being an object now to meetB
With Parsons that don't want to eatB
Fit men to fill those Irish rectoriesA
Which soon will have but scant refectoriesA
It has been suggested lest that ChurchC
Should all at once be left in the lurchC
For want of reverend men enduedD
With this gift of never requiring foodD
To try by way of experiment whetherE
There couldn't be made of wood and leatherE
Howe'er the notion may sound chimericalF
Jointed figures not lay but clericalF
Which wound up carefully once a weekG
Might just like parsons look and speakG
Nay even if requisite reason tooH
As well as most Irish parsons doH
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The experiment having succeeded quiteI
Whereat those Lords must much delightI
Who've shown by stopping the Church's foodD
They think it isn't for her spiritual goodJ
To be served by parsons of flesh and bloodK
The Patentees of this new inventionL
Beg leave respectfully to mentionL
They now are enabled to produceA
An ample supply for present useA
Of these reverend pieces of machineryM
Ready for vicarage rectory deaneryM
Or any such like post of skillN
That wood and leather are fit to fillN
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N B In places addicted to arsonL
We can't recommend a wooden parsonL
But if the Church any such appointsA
They'd better at least have iron jointsA
In parts not much by Protestants hauntedK
A figure to look at's all that's wantedK
A block in black to eat and sleepO
Which now that the eating's o'er comes cheapO
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P S Should the Lords by way of a treatB
Permit the clergy again to eatB
The Church will of course no longer needP
Imitation parsons that never feedP
And these wood creatures of ours will sellQ
For secular purposes just as wellQ
Our Beresfords turned to bludgeons stoutR
May 'stead of beating their own aboutR
Be knocking the brains of Papists outR
While our smooth O'Sullivans by all meansA
Should transmigrate into turning machinesA

Thomas Moore



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