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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 rhythms, forms, and each word align;
Quick to shape poems to perfection,
Bringing finesse to art’s reflection.
But its pen drips with glib emotions,
It revels in stale, putrid notions,
It loots old clichés in broad daylight,
With its informants on every site.
It pours in all ears its 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.
Copyright ©
Maclawrence Famuyiwa
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