WITNESS PROTECTION [VERSE 1 — DISSECTION] Clean sentence. You lean in. Here comes the deep inspection; red pen, dead set: one dash. That's your cheap detection. Your post has two. "That's style." Nice personal exemption; funny how your own fingerprints get witness protection. You're the long-post referee who deletes the thread when drafts appear; back next morning, same speech. Like none of us were here. Passed sentence on a sentence before reading what it said; got a trial in the comments, keep the evidence inside your head. Praised the phrasing; a tool touched it? There goes your glowing appraisal; same words, same work. All that changed was you knowing the label. Blame the drill for the leaning cabinet? Show me the joint that gave; you keep naming tools. Tell me why the shelf won't hold the weight. You need a slip-up. I fix one. Now the fix is "proof"? Your test needs worse writing every time the writer improves. You keep naming what you think somebody used; I keep asking one boring question: what did the fucking line fail to do? [HOOK] If it's weak, say why. If it's stolen, name the theft. If your whole critique is "tool used," you got nothing left. Judge the bar. Name the flaw. You can hate the way it's made; but your taste ain't testimony, and your guess ain't a grade. [VERSE 2 — DESTRUCTION] Feed it, don't read it. Let the screen make the decision; you fight for human judgment with computer supervision. Prejudice with a percentage; now it passes for precision. Your gut's got a loading bar. That's your "natural intuition"? Long post, wrong focus. Nothing on composition. Drafts, dates, saved revisions; now you're changing the conditions. "I can sense AI." That's a horoscope for people who review shit. Typos get a "human" stamp; proofread it, you start to doubt me; you'd trust it more if I wrote worse. Say that part out loud, please. Kitchen light. Eight words, twenty reads; cut the favorite, keep the meaning; you call the missing mess a missing human being. Which line was bad? Read it to me. I might've missed something. I'll wait. [Half-bar silence] [HOOK] If it's weak, say why. If it's stolen, name the theft. If your whole critique is "tool used," you got nothing left. Judge the bar. Name the flaw. You can hate the way it's made; but your taste ain't testimony, and your guess ain't a grade. [VERSE 3 — EXECUTION] Sure, bots write bullshit. People do too. That's no compliment: all that "rose up from the damage" with no cost or consequence. No missed call, rent notice, thumb over SEND while the hand freezes; "Human" isn't high praise. I've read your fucking comments. Check theft. Check consent. Who got paid? Who gave permission? Whose voice got copied? Get receipts. A dash can't be your witness. A good song doesn't grant consent. A bad one's not proof of theft; you can't tell who got robbed by how a dash divides the text. You call my edits cover-ups; your edit wipes the thread. Your cleanest copy's missing every fucking thing you said. "Too polished" needs an example. Which correction made it worse, then? How many typos do I need before you let me be a person? Old human verse trips your test. Now the test gets your protection; big on human error till you fit the definition. You never feared artificial intelligence. You feared losing artificial superiority.
