The A.I. is Not Wrong: Five Poems by James Morrison (and—he would like it to be stressed—OpenAI)
By James Morrison
December 2022
On losing the elastication in one’s trousers
My trousers lost their elastic grip,
so in public, to my dismay,
they slowly slid off my hip
and revealed my underwear to the fray.
My face blushed bright red and I ran
to find a private place to hide,
but I could not outrun the laughter
that followed me on every side.
My embarrassment was aflame
as I tried to secure my pants,
while friends and strangers laughed their heads off
as I did a funny dance.
My trousers were determined to stay off
and refused to be re-latched,
so with a sigh I had to accept
that in public, I had to go commando-ed.
Death by Vegemite poisoning
Death by Vegemite poisoning,
A taste that most can't stand,
A salty flavor that lingers
And lingers in the land.
The spread of darkened brown
A salty smell in the air,
A death so swift and sudden
No one will ever know why you were there.
A sandwich that was never meant to be,
A mistake that cost a life,
From a jar of Vegemite
That was never meant for strife.
A warning to all who eat
From a jar of Vegemite,
It may look like a meal
But it wrongfully kills in its might.
Some lost Shakespearean sexiness
Oh! Let my fingers trace thy skin
Creatures of pleasure we shall be
And when thy lips I feel within
Our love shall evermore be free
My heart beats fast with fervent heat
That stirs a flame of passion bright
Come hither and let us our love complete
And bask in the glow of its light
My hands explore thy body's wonders
Arousing thy carnal desire
Our love will ever be asunder
And no force can quench our fire
An awful book cover
(for Cormac McCarthy)
An awful book cover does not bode well
A sign that the story inside won't fare well
A picture so bad it turns your stomach
A design that's too terrible to comprehend
A font that's so wrong, it's an eyesore
The colors so garish, they make you sore
A picture that's so tasteless and dull
It's enough to make you want to crawl
A cover that's so uninspired
It's enough to make you perspire
A story inside that's so trite
It's enough to make you take flight
An awful book cover, a poor omen
A sign of what's inside, a warning
A book that you wouldn't even touch
It's enough to make you lose your lunch.
A poem about having one or more bar stools up my bum
Bar stools up my bum
It's something I must succumb
For only through this task
Will I ever be able to bask
In the glory of a successful bum
I sit there in a daze
As I push with all my might
For by pushing these bar stools
I'm sure I'll feel alright
The pain I feel inside
My legs they seem to burn
But I'm determined to get through
This lesson I must learn
Through perseverance and dedication
I push these bar stools up
My bum is now the wisdom
Of a higher cup
And with a satisfied sigh
I know I'm done
The bar stools up my bum
Are finally done
