There once was a Whateley so brash,
Who thought all critique was just trash,
But your tongue's been too sharp,
You ignite a dull harp—
Your abrasiveness is nothing but ash.
Your retorts may be quick and they fly,
But they’re empty like clouds in the sky.
If you fail to relent,
Keep on being so bent,
You’ll continue receiving an AI reply.
Maybe they don’t want to clean up a fresh install of Windows, maybe they don’t own a computer, maybe they don’t have arms, maybe they can’t read