Infinite A Todd Aid

Cyber poets seeking buried treasure filled with rushed rapture A.I’s hurried; Robotic words never ringing no soul, outraged console steady lagging; Pop goes the weasel suddenly alive; Bourgeois contrive it’s meant to be; Left a jack in the box out of control technology stole all the word docs; Infinite is always within arm’s reach, victims of a breach much too often; Criminals that dip into a writer’s mind, the destructive kind with quite a quip; Murderous impersonation DM’s, virtuous victim’s dark liaison; Laying waste to the pen’s process it falls, there’s nothing that calls or will impress; Desperately seeking any sparkle, you are not mortal and you’re stealing; Cyber poets they cannot look within, weak source of jargon without a hook.