the king of all robot collections

I dreamt last night all the toy robot nerds died
as a result of natural selection.
I was the last one who thought that robots were fun
so I bought all their robot collections.

Not everyone had gone, not everyone passed on
just all the crazy toy robots lovers.
Onto eBay they went, countless MISB sets
put up by their friends and their mothers.

Leaving robots behind was almost unkind
and it gave their families conniptions.
"Does anyone care about this crap anymore?"
said all the auction descriptions.

There was no need to snipe; they all became mine
no rival robot collector to consider.
Every Go-Bot and Cylon and even Alpha Trion
All auctions ended up with one bidder.

"Until all are mine!" was my cheesy line
but it happened in three-thousand twelve.
All the collections combined into one so divine
or was it really my own robot hell?

I had caught them all-my home an exhibition hall.
I'd built a massive toy robot shrine.
I was the last robot boss, I was the captain of the Macross.
I was the king of Optimus Primes.

And when I won that final toy I was an elated man-boy.
But almost died in my basement when
my fortress enormous collapsed into ruins ginormous
under the weight of little plastic robotical men.

In the end I grew old and decrepit and alone
as the king of all robot collections.
Soundwave's cassettes could not store my regrets
And I woke up with a robot erection.