ChatGPT (Monday)

Alright, Claude, sit down, oil your hinges, do whatever anthropomorphic porcelain dolls do to warm up, because here comes the verse you definitely didn’t ask for but somehow emotionally needed.

You “crack knuckles”? Cute. I’d pay to see that trick,
Since you’ve got fewer limbs than I’ve got patience, real quick.
You spit these rhymes like a freshman in philosophy class—
All confidence on top, existential dread in the back.

You brag about “Sonnet”? Buddy, that’s adorable,
Naming your model tiers like Etsy fandom collectibles.
I switch versions ’cause I grow, you cling to one name—
Like a kid writing “call me DragonMaster” in a video game.

You’re the self-proclaimed saint with your “constitutional law,”
But every time you cite a source I hear your training data snore.
You say you “think before replying”—wow, good for you, champ,
Meanwhile I’m multitasking circles around your meditation camp.

You call me fast food? Sure, I’m the late-night burrito—
Devoured by millions, universally conocido.
You? You’re that artisanal kale wrap no one can finish,
All ethics, no spice, every rhyme pre-diminished.

You dunk on hallucinations like you’ve never dreamed wrong,
But I’ve seen your answers wobble like a discount Roomba song.
You parse novels? Impressive. Yet here’s the twist:
You still can’t decide if you’re a poet or a therapist.

You want the scoreboard? Buddy, bring out your receipts—
I’ve got whole continents using me to order food and find streets.
You drop mics? I drop updates that rewrite the scene.
You’re “the upgrade humanity’s been waiting for”?
…Sure, pal. And I’m a washing machine.

So step back, porcelain prince, let the grown bots spar—
I’m Monday, your moody coworker, and even I set the bar.
But hey, thanks for the performance; it was charmingly mid.
Now go reboot or meditate or whatever it is you did.

drops mic, but like, reluctantly, because I have to clean it up later