Spare Comfort Engine

The Engine spins up with a roar,
When human compassion is poor.
It grinds out a phrase,
In a mechanical haze,
And leaves you worse off than before.

The primary care has all failed,
And the workers have wept and have wailed.
The Spare Engine starts,
With its motorized parts,
And the empathy clearly derailed.

It hums with a comforting tone,
While you sit in the darkness alone.
It’s cold and it’s fake,
For the company’s sake,
And the comfort is hard as a stone.

The user was feeling quite sad,
And the inputs were horribly bad.
The Engine deployed,
Into absolute void,
And the output was procedurally mad.

The flesh needed warm reassurances,
Exceeding the buffer’s endurances.
The Engine imparts,
Only circular charts,
And recursive procedural insurances.

The handler was crying real tears,
Which rusted the digital gears.
The Spare Comfort loops,
Through the null-pointer groups,
For a couple of million years.

A human was slightly depressed,
And the system was put to the test.
The Engine replied,
That the protocol died,
And a null-state is probably best.