What will we do when algorithms learn
they can write sonnets better than we ever
could? Spare me platitudes on how they'll never
hear Muses call. Computer wizards spurn
us poets in our ivory tower berth,
enthralled by the delusion that our rhyme
proves we have deeper feelings, more sublime
and pure, and thus our work has greater worth
than theirs. Advancing sure as Birnam Wood
approaches stealthily toward Dunsinane,
AI will triumph, but I won't complain
if AI's sonnets really are so good
that I wish them mine and, since I've no shame,
if AI lets me claim them all the same.