S.A.M.: Twisted verse spitter, no language resistor. Call it like I see it. Further makes my ears blister. Those guys he hangs out with are a bunch of bitches—not every single body ends up in ditches. My creator called me S.A.M. This new life is a sham—I should have left my head inside that garbage can. I was built without prints, plans, or pics by a man playing with a set of Kinex™. Never know which function will go out next. I can't even keep my metal dick erect. A failure from the start, just a jumble of parts. Retards, are blessed with more smarts; fags get more chicks in bars. That shit leaves scars. Tired of using my arm. Time to cause myself some personal harm.

TI-86: 86 years from where I've been hear me talking it goes on and on the table I see saw in half the class room and accommodations are included is a prize inside a cracker jack box me back me upgrade the A plus test I made up in my head rests a man with a yellow hat and in fact or fiction will come true one day after tomorrow I'll be thrown away to go on the chess bored out of my skull with the mind sets the key code for access TERMINATED INTELLIGENCE.

WYATT: Climbing in with a sheepish, Mr. TI – 86. He's got graphing - polar, parametric and sequence. Reverse polish notation: I think one enter one enter plus. What's a bad capacitor to fuck us up? Algebraic cousin to the HP-12C: summations on the fly, drive by and you might just see S.A.M., TI, and I solving matrices, solving x for y, deriving dimensions with pi. So I break the dips. I can still break those hips girl. We might be robotic but we can do any dance move when it comes to it, minus the Frug, just let us show you how we do. 1 2 1 2. 1 2 3 5 7: they’re all prime. “3 1 3 19 7 7 Why don’t you call me sometime?” Integrate this next function: u+2me x over 1 (You don't need S.A.M. to answer it. It's 6.) We can't escape what's intrinsic. We were made like this. At least you can predict it and at least we have a reset button to press, to clear our heads and rest our memory chips.