Well, That Was a Thing

As an experiment, I ran the last blogpost through ChatGPT, chose a meter and rhyme scheme, and asked the AI to turn it into a poem. Here is the result.

Being Self-Ish

Within myself there dwell seven different men,
Who take the reins by turns and call me "I."
The sages gave such riders names divine;
I only know they seldom pass me by.

The first is Boredom, heavy-limbed and still.
He bids me linger where no labor lies,
To waste the golden hours in vacant thought,
And watch dead embers with unseeing eyes.

He asks no feast of triumph or delight,
No noble quest to stir the heart or hand;
To drift, to yawn, to idle through the day—
That is the kingdom where he loves to stand.

The Earthy follows, sturdier by far.
He keeps one foot upon the solid sod.
He dreams of suppers, budgets, roofs, and tools,
Content with things beneath the vault of God.

He prizes clean-swept floors and mended gates,
Good barbecue—or hot dogs, if they must—
The body's needs, the household's daily cares,
The honest claims of appetite and dust.

Above him stands the Family in me,
Who longs to shelter all within his reach;
He cannot heal the world's enormous wounds,
Yet serves with needle, skillet, word, and speech.

He seeks no glory in his little works,
But only that his loved ones safely thrive;
A peaceful home is victory enough,
Where thankful hearts and humble joys survive.

Then Nerdy comes with lifted brow and grin,
Defender of each truth he counts as dear.
He tilts at error like a knight of old,
Though knowing well his blind spots still are near.

His pride is checked by many a foolish slip,
Yet still he'll plant his banner where he's sure;
He loves an argument for truth itself,
A hopeless cause can make him more secure.

Behind thick walls another captive waits,
The Bawdy, laughing, restless, horned one.
I thought the stones had made a prison strong—
Perhaps instead they built a bastion.

For now and then he sallies from the gate
To raid the quiet provinces within;
He plants strange gardens where I least expect,
And mocks the watchmen with a knowing grin.

Then rises Piety with folded hands,
Who fears to wound the grace he longs to keep;
He hastens toward the altar and the cross,
Yet trusts God's mercy deeper than the deep.

He knows beloved sins are still but sins,
However warmly they may plead their cause;
He prays for all he loves with steadfast hope,
And rests beneath his Father's wiser laws.

Last comes the Maker, whom I love the best,
Who gathers every other self as one;
He takes their wheat and chaff into his mill,
Then laughs to see what unexpected's done.

He asks no fame, nor riches, nor applause,
But loses self within the work's delight.
When he steps down, I marvel at the thing
That somehow came from darkness into light.

It still needs polishing; the Nerd agrees.
The flaws remain for later hands to mend.
Yet every honest work that comes to birth
Feels like a gift no labor could pretend.

Perhaps when all the clamor has grown still,
And every lesser ruler yields his claim,

The Maker bears me nearest to the One

Whose image first imagined whence I came.

I think it came out pretty good. It sounds like me, like something I would write. In fact I did produce the content; the program patted it into form.What status do such twi-formed, amphibious works have? Can I really claim it as mine?