Steel Winged Angels

Man has contrived a machine
That can sort the mail, can glean
The facts and calculate
To the end of selecting one’s mate.

Machines of sleek looking steel,
Bright colors of green, blue or teal,
Hum a monotonous tune
As they cipher and dictate their rune.

A note of cold dependence
Shrouds each boxed-in semblance;
Steel winged angels in a slot,
Not a sinner in the lot.