We added the artisans first.
Then came the drudges working the assembly lines.
The farmers, or their laborers, at least, were also mixed in.
No one really wants to know how the sausage is made.
The computers were integrated.
Their astronaut wards processed beside them.

And now we've found a way
To dig up the artists, writers, musicians, and dancers, the builders and thinkers
And feed them to the corpse machine

We asked ChatGPT to write a poem called "Dead Labor"
And called it a "corpse machine."
It returned an awful poem:
Too declarative. No pulse. Generic and clichéd. No tension. Flatly moralistic.
Perhaps, if we feed it enough corpses, it will get better.

I fed myself to the corpse machine
And it returned a corpse.