Cryptids
AI is a stick insect,
That’s dressed in camouflage –
It sort-of looks correct
When we first glance its new collage.
But it doesn’t understand
That it is in disguise at all –
When it’s evolution’s secret hand
That’s caused its overhaul.
A thousand new mutations
Strut their stuff for all to see –
Just a few will be foundations
For the next-gen family tree.
Those that have too many fingers
Get plucked-out toot sweet –
While the one with better digits lingers,
Ready to compete.
And the carnivore consumers
Quickly spot the wonky test,
But the better-letter bloomers
Reproduce to code the next.
These critters still are random strays,
But now they feel designed –
It’s simply how they look these days,
To parasite our mind.
Rhyming Couplets 