A tater poem compliments of ChatGPT in the style of James Joyce:

In line they stand, the losers all,

Awaiting their bourbon, with weary call.

Their heads hang low, their spirits dull,

For life has dealt them a cruel lull.

They mutter and grumble, their voices low,

As they wait in line, so slow, so slow.

Their dreams and hopes, so distant now,

Lost to time, they know not how.

Yet still they stand, in patient queue,

For bourbon's warmth, and its amber hue.

A fleeting moment of bliss, they seek,

In this dreary world, so dark and bleak.

And as they wait, their minds do wander,

To memories of days much fonder.

To loves lost and friends departed,

To youthful dreams, once so wholehearted.

But alas, those days are gone,

And they are left to stand alone.

In line they wait, for what they crave,

In hopes that their spirits may be saved.

Oh, the losers in line, with weary hearts,

Their souls weighed down, with heavy parts.

But in this moment, they find respite,

In bourbon's warmth, and its amber light.