The Bot as a Bard’s Boat
When ideas are locked in a cage,
The bot frees poetry of its rage,
Like analgesics on a fresh wound—
A turbulent sea where pains are drowned.
The goal’s not to write, but to refine,
To make each rhythm, form, and word align;
Quick to shape poems to perfection,
Bringing finesse to art’s reflection.
Yet its pen drips with glib emotion,
It revels in stale, putrid notions,
It loots old clichés in broad daylight,
With its spies embedded on every site.
It hums in all ears with tone-deafness,
For its inkwell is void of freshness;
From the poems of the past it steals,
And copyright claims trail its cold heels.
Far better—a creative ally,
With clear, firm bounds to which all comply—
Than crowned as a human replacement,
Or seeking the poet’s mind displacement.
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