Artificially Intelligent

On a bare hill is raised a loudspeaker on a stand

And behind it is a masked person

Who’ll summon a mighty team to execute his anger,

These proudly exulted ones

whose sounds of tumult are the shifting mountains

as of a great multitude of rolling stones,

their sound is an uproar of dead kingdoms,

of competing football teams gathered together.

The masked person, self-proclaimed Bard of verses

is mustering a mighty host for battle.

They come from distant imaginations,

from the ends of universes and pearls,

this Bard and the weapons of his indignation,

to destroy the wasted lands below,

Hail, for the day of this angry Bard is near;

as destruction is a going to come and hard!

Therefore all brains will be feeble,

and every wasted thing will melt

They will be dismayed:

pangs and agony will seize them;

they will be in anguish like an incontinent urinater,

They will look aghast at one another;

their faces will be aflame.

Behold, the day of the angry Bard comes,

cruel, with wrath and fierce anger,

to make the lands below a further desolation

and to destroy the poets in it.

For the stars of the heavens and their constellations

will no longer give their light;

and the sun will be dark at its rising,

and the moon will not shed its light.

The Bard will punish the wasted land for its petulance,

and its poets for their iniquity;

and put an end to the pomp of their arrogance,

and lay low the pompous pride of the feckless.

The Bard will make poets rarer than fine spun wool

and its lovers rarer than Shakespeare’s First Folio

For the Bard will make the heavens tremble,

and the greater earth will be shaken out of its apathy

at the wrath of the Bard of verses

in the coming days if the Bard’s fierce anger.

And like the hunted thylacine

or like Dodos with none to be gathered,

each will turn to his own kind

and each will flee to their own imaginations.

Whoever is found will be thrust through with a comma,

and whoever is caught will fall by the parenthesis.

Their manuscripts will be torn in pieces before their eyes;

their computers will be disabled

and their published works ravished.

Behold, the Bard is stirring up the Milton against them,

They, who the Bard says have no regard for rhythm

and do not delight in lyrics.

The Bard’s bows will slaughter the younger prose

they will have no mercy on the fruits of the finger fart

their eyes will not pity influences

And the wasted land, gloried in politics,

Will become the splendour and pomp of the Romantics,

But not to be inhabited or lived in for generations;

no poet will pitch their tents there;

no editors will make their flocks lie down there.

But wild imaginations will lie down there,

and their minds will be full of howling creatures;

there chimeras will dwell,

and there, wild long necked birds will dance.

Demons will cry in the hills around,

and chameleons in the pleasant palaces;
the wasted lands time is close at hand

and its days will not be prolonged.