As soon as the cybermen
had contrived to behave like you and me
we knew
the game was up
There they sit
with faces too bland for comfort
pour their tea
look languidly into each other's eyes
or shake with laughter
Impeccably
yet with notable refinement
they play the piano
procreate discreetly in the attic
and shoot the birds from the roof
while we
veterans of artlessness
see no other way out
but to mutate into angels
or
rather more likely
turn outrageously evil

Translation: Richard Stokes and the author