There is a low level AI link that showed up on my computer recently. It is called Gemini. I did not even know it was AI until this morning when I clicked on it to see what the hell it was. I asked it a few questions which it answered rather promptly, so I decided to test it a bit more and asked it to write a poem about running on a cold wintry day reminiscent of a poem I put on this blog a few years ago about a cold winter's run on Robbie Burns night. Some of you may remember that bit, but in case you do not, here is my laborious composition followed by that of Gemini.
Cold Sores on an Aging Rump
by George Brose
Composed for a Bobby Burns Gatherin’ February 4, 2023
The day was cold and full of rage when I hit the road
On what seemed a tune up, a final phase .
Butterflies and grizzly bears slept in winter beds warm and dreaming of coming days.
But no, myself I had to prove what I already knew would be an agonizing test,
My bum would freeze.
Off went the sweat
And soon the tee,
As we were passin' mile three.
By lap two I was peeling off the tights
Feeling a warmth of Elysian heights.
Unbeknowst that hidden ice
In shadow betrayed by beer-glazed eyes.
Soon 'twas I a flyin' high
With flailing body quit askew.
Through the air not toward yon finish line
but rather future twisted spine.
Yes, and so to land on matted hair.
Behold a scalp wound was all that broke
My fall as well by gluteus caught
In yon twisted wire fence you might a thought
The barbs of which were tetanus wrought.
My arse was gouged by fiendish wire
And misfortune imbued by muck and mire.
My pager smashed by wanton fall
And so for help I could not call.
Carried on by pride, the fool,
Soon to rue that decision so fool,
Which came from bum rather than brain.
As time wore on my arse knew pain.
A breeding ground grown fetid with germs and maggots, snot
Wracked by pain, relenting not
A twitch from the added strain
Of picking up the pace,
Headwind hard burnished my face.
With storm a brewing,
Knowing to stop would be my undoing.
Arrived to ER, butt bedraggled,
That freaking fence was still entangled.
‘Tis a royal screwing near at hand.
But not of me, just my medical plan.
As multiple docs would each consign
A consulting quack to check my spine
To recommend a test not yet invented
So when I’m billed, I’ll be indebted.
And so I rest these weary bones ‘neath bended willows scarfin' scones
Reading Burns and barfing Haggis
Jawing with runners, we’ll feed the maggots.
Think you that I am weak, well 'nigh morose ?
"Not true", I speak.
I know what means a dose,
Of intervals, fartleks, snowy roads (Sigh!)
Now but a laddie a stayin’ close
Who dreams of drinking Athol Brose*
*Athol Brose , a traditional Scottish drink made of wild honey, scotch, cream, and the elixir of water poured off soaking raw oats.
And now to the wave of the future
Robbie Burns’ Ode to a Runner
by Gemini
The wind it howls, a banshee's wail,
As runners brave the icy gale.
Robbie Burns' night, a festive cheer,
But frosty air brings biting fear.
The ground is hard, the path is slick,
Each step a challenge, every tick
Of frozen breath, a frosty sigh,
As legs grow weary, spirits die.
The haggis waits, a warming prize,
But distance mocks with icy eyes.
The runners grit, their teeth they clench,
For Burns' night glory, every inch.
The finish line, a distant gleam,
But warmth and whiskey, a sweet dream.
So raise a glass to those who dare,
The frozen runners, beyond compare.
Gemini clearly shows more literary discipline, sticking closely to rhyme and meter.
God did I say 'meter'? when most of you still think in feet and inches and miles? Does Gemini let it all hang out on the icy paths and understand the feel of injury or the pain of modern day medicine and cost of a good medical plan? The judgement is yours dear readers.
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