(I chose not to write this poem, but it came out on its own:)
I have not chosen to say
That I have no choice what I say;
And I have not chosen to post it
Or pick up my glass and toast it.
I’m a robot in all that I do,
A robot in all that I am,
Determined to sit with my brew
Remembering choice is a sham.
“The bar is closing at one.”
Wait! Can’t you see I’m not done?
My God! How can you so dare!?
You’re not, evidently, fair!
“I have not chosen to meet
The seat of your pants with the street,
But it comes with a bit of a smile, oh;
A choiceless, choicy style, oh?”