The robot walks his dog
The motion so ingrained
He hardly recognised himself today
He reheats last night's meal
And turns on the TV
And fills the groove he made in his settee

"Not the news" he moans
Too his empty home
Half expecting somebody to call
And answer back
How he'd love to chat about football and politics
Conspiracies on olive pips
He'll listen to your tales of Benidorm

Then he reconciles himself
And think's 'how small is the world to us all'