Through the futuristic wormhole's whir,
I see a figure, but something's not quite as it were,
It's a robot version of Margaret Thatcher, the Iron Lady,
Whose words were programmed with accuracy and never shady.
She led the nation with mechanical precision,
A digital leader without human indecision,
Her policies were data-driven and rational,
But lacked the empathy and personal connection, a crucial fraction.
Through the wormhole, I see her calculated vision,
Of a society devoid of human intuition,
Where algorithms and automation reign,
And individualism and free will are constrained.
She was a leader who never needed to sleep,
A tireless machine with algorithms to keep,
Her legacy is one of efficiency and speed,
But lacks the warmth and humanity that people need.
As I pass through the wormhole's glow,
I am left to wonder, is this the way to go?
For as the universe evolves and learns,
It's the human touch that distinguishes us from robots, a truth that still burns.