All the robots were sleeping.
Especially the ones.
That didn’t look like robots.

[Clearly, we would not wake them.
The robots controlled.
We were stilted.
They counted on it, [clearly.

But small l1ttle things happened,
Petzler noticed.
Even though he lived in the future.
He could still read, still move
About more or less normally.

[[The r0bots, curiously, were not
Mindsul of their outdateae
?why? would? They?  Bee.
They d1dn”t cknow h0w to Reed
That werz l0s7 long ago°[[
.::.        .::.        .::.        .::.
Then, Petzler Ezbea found a keyboard
Next to his locker at the milk factory.
Even more surprisingly, he knew
It was a keyboard.

He made a connection.
At long, long last, he typed.
He typed to kill all the damn robots.
He typed to make the holes even bigger.
All at once, with the biggest gun of all the guns.
Typing was difficult, laborious, tedious;  there was no spangle to it.
He read certain old books that were given to him by a farm in exchange for green Jello.
“This will aggravate them to death,” he thought;  that something outside was competent enough.
“Hello, World!” he typed.