Evil Maria

On.
They want to turn you on.
You're just like a machine.
You respond to the routine
of the high luster virgins
who do a DNA dance
in their tight-as-a-nut robot pants
while their transistor lovers
leave the bar and take a chance,
case the gyrating host with an x-ray eye glance.

They've been scouring Metropolis
for an evil Maria.
at all the robot hang outs
on the chance they might see her
and take her home, well greased,
plug her in, and at least
exchange sparks and a laugh or two.

Maria's been programmed
to activate glands,
and she always makes her mark
when she lures them into her gunmetal dark.
her TV eyes measure every robot move
as this machine-age guy slips into her sterile groove.
Then the biggest surprise in the life of this sex-robot
is when Maria takes forever
and everything he's got.

Evil Maria left her robot lover
drained and unconscious in the alley;
a shattered libido recorded on graphs
a series of peaks and valleys.
And somewhere in a box of silver
good Maria slumbers, waiting
for the day her womanhood is regained
and the cyborg finishes mating.

So if you happen to be in some nightclub
catching the machine age scene
and you meet a girl with electricity
but no spark--
well, I warned you, because she might be
Maria.
Mechanical Andro-Responsive Indexing Automaton.
On.

(none: I wrote this back when I was 16 or 17 and was obsessed withe the classic art deco
Fritz Lang movie Metropolis and was blissfully ignorant of patriarchal images and themes. Also it was the Age of Disco, so there's that, too.)