Flies in the Soup
Waiter, there are too many flies in my soup.
The recipe has been horribly changed
until sorrowfully, now it tastes like poop.
It's been watered down and rearranged
and that's unfortunate in so many ways.
It's no longer tasty, like in the good ol' days.
Too many flies keep buzzing around my table.
I don't know if I can stay here, or if I'm able.
Other restaurants seem to offer much more.
Their menus are more appealing and diverse.
I used to write poetry at my table by the score,
but the AI users don't write their own verse.
Images posted are gargantuan in size
Glitches continue that serve to bastardize.
Visits are waning, fewer and further between.
I've lost my appetite for the soup's cuisine.
The saying goes, "To each their own,"
but I won't be throwing the dogs a bone.
Real poets lose while cheaters steal a prize
when plagiarists continue to enter poems
that have been stolen with their greedy eyes.
It's all been said and nothing has been done
to clean up the kitchen that used to be such fun.
Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da. I prefer Beatles over flies.
If you need an explanation for these lines,
you're fortunate not to comprehend their meaning.
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