Computers can win at chess – But so what ? Is that the best they got ? Computers may win at chess But make a real mess Of a whole lot of diddly squat That won’t fit on their spreadsheet. The way to beat the bot Is to cheat. Oh sure, they game the theory, Work the odds, But they’re not gods. They’re sticklers for the rules And so naive – So load the dice and palm the jewels A tuck a joker up the sleeve – That’ll show the sods ! They’re just a bunch of gears and rods – They can’t cut short our innings, Until the day’s at hand when they demand Their share of winnings.
I knew a girl called Angela Engels With wanted to know the fundamentals – Who wanted to know how angels flew When they were far too large, she knew, To stay aloft the way they do. But then…well eagles, they’re big too, And owls are even bigger, sure – At least the biggest ones are bigger – And albatrosses, once mature – And condors are bosses, they have to figure, With wings much wider than she was tall, And yet…they hardly seem to flap them at all. But hang on…there’s always swans, And swans kept pumping through the air And turkeys, though they hardly fly, But yes they can, from here to there. And bustards too can reach the sky, they say, (Though it takes them quite the run up To get up up and away.)
So Angela looked up size and span and stat, And found they weren’t that fat – Those amigos averaged less that a dozen kilos And she knew flat how she weighed more than that. So unless the angels, like insects, were pin-head small, They’d surely barely rise and plenty fall. But there was also mention Of an ancient, mythic vulture, barely known – Now that got her attention ! Though they had only found one bone, And had to guess the rest and how they’d grown. And just the same for Quetzalcoatlus – Surely that was just as hatless, Based on fossils and guesstimates, Not measures and weights, And was perched uneasy on its throne. And anyway, those both were dead – So heck, for all their trying They couldn’t be that great at flying, she said.
So maybe angels, though their wings are feathered, (And they cannot be untethered From the hug of gravity), So maybe they employ another method in reality – P’raps their wings are really a screen Protecting their backs from a rocket machine That blasts them up to Heaven instead !, Like Newton said – and yes, alright, it’s then implied That then their flight is just a glide back down. (They’d also need a flameproof gown, And goggles wouldn’t go amiss, But she could really take to this !) Although…well, was it heavy on the carbon, Swimming like a tarpon through the air ? Would angels better abstain and take the train, To show they care ? Angela hoped they’d be aware, and do without it, Or at least to think about it, heed her words And maybe leave the flying to the birds.
Strange to think, how satellites would watch us from above, Back when they flew – Sometimes sinister, I guess, but mostly were benign enough – And what a view ! They photographed our towns, and all the towns across the Earth We’d never see – They let us zoom in anywhere, from Minsk to Bogota to Perth And all for free ! They beamed our television down, they watched the clouds and rain, They showed us Mars – They navigated us around, then brought us safely home again, And shone like stars – Before their orbitals were filled with shrapnel, deadly fast, That took them out – The age of satellites became the age when flying junk amassed – It’s all about ! So now, of course, we’re trapped upon the Earth, trapped in the past Without those eyes, For years – until the tug of friction rains them down at last, And clears the skies.
These forests grow like chequer-boards, Their heads are said to lowly growl – The sea will lash their thousand bolts, As slowly twists each triple-swords To whisk the wind and steal its howl For grinding watts and milling volts.
Flatland always had all three, All three dimensions on it – Anyone with sense can see The Flatoids are upon it ! It’s true, they barely used the zed, But still the zed was there – But as for other strings that thread, These cannot cube the square.
There is no metal in the metalled roads, But still they’re made of steel – They take the feet and hooves and loads, And the ever-turning wheel. The dust and ruts and highwaymen Were swept away in dale and fen By smooth and fast and tarmacked threads With footed feet and watersheds.
But these have all been laid with stone A century or more – The job is done, the back is bone, The soles are growing sore… We surely now have roads enough To leave the wilds unpaved and rough, And only build our future trails As metalled roads of shining rails.
I write you once again, my love, By paper and by boat. The old-fashioned way’s The only way you’ll ever get my note.
But have you heard, A telegraph now spans between we two ? Is this the modern world, my love, The endless chase for something new ?
Though sometimes, when I think how long We take to send our hearts’ desires, I fancy, on the breeze, that angels sing Along those wires –
Pensmiths, calling pensmiths, What you write today, You’ll get to say tomorrow – Calling pensmiths from across the globe, Your words shall span and probe, This time tomorrow. We shall gladly carry all your distant precious words, The small, the silly and absurd, From off your lips to willing ears – Allying fears that letters reach too slow – Come tomorrow.
It’s hardly for the likes of us, my love, Who must still write – No spark or semaphore will speed These words as fast as light.
I cannot see how just one simple cable Can unite us all. Messages are paper still and boats, For those whose means are small.
And yet, so many weeks until Your next reply can stoke my fires, If only, on the breeze the angels sang Along the wires –
Scribers, calling scribers, What you write today, Shall fly away tomorrow – Calling scribers from across the sea, Your words are bounding free This time tomorrow. We shall gladly carry ev’ry distant precious thought, The playful and the overwrought, That bring their homes to foreign parts, Assuring hearts that letters reach too slow – Come tomorrow.
Musical AI version generated by Suno.com – find more of them over here.
Ten full transmissions each hour, each way – That’s four-hundred-eighty transmissions each day – Four-hundred-eighty, and what will they say ?
Good news and bad news and news that can’t wait, Tidings and greetings and offers and meetings, And orders and pledges and threats and debate, Departures, arrivals, and lovers and rivals.
Ten full transmissions each hour, each way, Of profits and prices and projects and pay, With no words misspoken or scattered astray.
Old news and new news and news of the world, Battles, elections and plagues and infections, As fast as the lightning, each message is hurled, And back comes each answer – an undersea dancer.
Ten full transmissions each hour, each way, Through storm and through snow and through come-all-what-may, With no need to worry and no need to pray.
Peace and good will, they bade – what hath God wrought ? Nation to nation in communication. So is this the peace the philosophers sought ? No need to be shy, just send your reply.
Dits and dahs and dahs and dits, All day, all night, all year, relaying – Reading, sending, hearing, writing, Little bursts of sound and lightning. Letters come in beeps and bits, We do not think of what they’re saying – In they steam without cessation, With no room for punctuation. Tappity, tappity, dit by dah, The pulse of the modern world, they are.
We are the teachers, we are the clerks, The upper working lower middle – Literate, and handling secrets, Tap it, jot it, never speak it. We are the servants of the sparks, Our social standing quite a riddle – Overworked yet fairly paid, We’re not professionals nor trade. Tappity, tappity, ev’ry station, All we move is information.
We’re fishing with hooks For a monster eel – He’s somewhere around here, we know. We’ll scrape in each nook And each crevice with steel, To catch us a live one below.
We’re plumbing the depth With our makeshift prong To land him right out of the wet. He’s only a thumbs-width, But boy, is he long. We’ll fetch him up here with us yet.
He isn’t so slippy When grabbed by his tail – We know where he’s likely to lay. His head may be whippy, His body may flail, But he won’t be wriggling away.
So surface our booty, Our highly-prized freight, He’s more precious than gold by the ton – So haul up our beauty, And haul up his mate, And splice them together as one.
Rhyming Couplets 