I made this one with the magic box in my head, into which I’ve poured those same lines o’er many a long year.
Machines will scant supply my Muse’s wit,
no matter how newfangled, o’erwrought,
their drasty rhymes are poetasters’ shit,
like reeking days-old cod, yet newly bought:
men once looked deep within and scanned their brains
to uncover fancies they wished to rhyme;
but now they press a button for their pains,
and produce far worse words in much less time.
Such is the vanity of the age, when
unletter’d rhymesters dare to scoff at we
who wield our wits in service of the pen,
and truck not with vain stuff eternally.
So write I to myself, and to my friends:
true invention’s a fount that never ends.
Took about five-ten minutes?
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