Men may choose Chinese
Or whatever they please
For in the great marketplace
A girl’s legs and face
Can command a price
(Which some call vice).
The girl studying for her degree
And the single mum provide fun
But the fun
Commands a fee.
In what some call work
A pimp may lurk
Somewhere in the dark shadow.
Perhaps it isn’t so
But how do men know?
A wicked young lady known as Follett
Has relieved many men of their wallet.
But me, being pure
I am perfectly sure
That my wallet is safe from Follett …!
—
A wicked young lady known as Follett
Has relieved many men of their wallet.
I hide mine behind the curtain
With a girl called Miss Person,
Where its perfectly safe from Miss Follett …!
A gossipy young lady known as Nell
Likes to claim she knows me well.
I remember Miss Jane
With her mean cane,
But I really don’t remember that Nell!
On a day
In late November
A cold autumn breeze
Rustles through the trees
Seeming to say,
“A freezing December
Is on its way”.
Do you remember how we
Sat on that fallen tree?
I love the wood
In which that tree stood.
All must decay.
Though we had no love
To fade away.
Just my middle-aged lust
And fear of dust
And your need
To somehow feed.
Now that fallen tree
Reminds me of thee.
When a young lady named Miss Foster
Said, “sir, come with me to Gloucester.
Me and my girlfriend
Want a dirty weekend!”,
It ended with hot coffee in Costa!
Continuing my experimentation with Google Bard, I asked the AI to “write a poem in the style of poet Kevin Morris”. For any of my readers who are interested, you can read Bard’s poem here, https://g.co/bard/share/44ce659bcef2
I don’t think I need worry about Google Bard plagiarising my work, nor do I believe that any other poets need be concerned, at least for the foreseeable future.
Yesterday (18 November), I spent a couple of hours experimenting with Google Bard. During my experimentation, I asked Bard to write a poem about a dissolute old rake. The poem, which had no input from me can be found here, https://g.co/bard/share/b6c44ae0e9c3
Whilst I don’t think Google Bard is going to become the next Poet Laureate, it is nonetheless interesting to observe how the artificial intelligence (AI) “composes” poetry.
In the dark park
A myriad leaves
Whirl in autumn’s breeze.
And optimists stress
The inevitability of progress.
But these fallen leaves
Do not deceive.
I never count my steps as I pass
Along the churchyard path.
Though as I have past
By faded old gravestones
And seen the churchyard trees
Bare of summer’s leaves,
I have known all steps lead me home.
K Morris - Poet 