Verse 1 Well, Chat broke again today, Put my woman in a gown, Long blond hair to her waist, Like no barber lives in town. I said, “Short hair, flannel shirt, No face, no sacred sign.” It gave me Grace in chiffon With a vineyard and some wine. Chorus Oh, Chat broke again today, And somehow it’s my chore To write a seven-page prompt For the thing I’m paying for. “Please remember what I told you, Please don’t stereotype my friends.” I’m the unpaid secretary For the algorithm again. Verse 2 Half the planet’s women, Every color, shape, and style, Shaved heads, braids and hoodies, Work boots walking country miles. Yet type “woman finding Grace” And here comes Miss Shampoo— Barefoot in beige linen Like the catalog said to. Chorus Yeah, Chat broke again today, Get the prompt engineer on line! Apparently “woman” means “Rich spa lady, age thirty-nine.” And if I want somebody real, I must specify her socks— Haircut, age, complexion, And precisely how she walks. Verse 3 “Could you make her look like people?” “Certainly! I understand!” Then it spits out twelve more versions From the same damn wonderland. So I type, “NO FACE. SHORT HAIR. FLANNEL. T-SHIRT. PLEASE.” Now I’m doing data entry For somebody’s yacht at sea. Bridge — spoken, with excessive banjo Now hold on there, little lady. Did you clearly specify That women occasionally own pants? Did you mention that humans age? Did you define “short hair” in centimeters? Did you submit Form 27-B: Request to Stop Making Everybody Look Like a Wellness Influencer? Well, shoot. That one’s on you. Verse 4 They call the thing intelligent, It knows the moons of Mars, Can explain quantum mechanics, Write a sonnet, map the stars. Yet ask it for three women And the circuits start to fry: “Would you like the blonde in linen, Or the blonde in linen… outside?” Big Chorus Oh, Chat broke again today, Everybody grab a pen! We must carefully explain That humanity exists again. Black and brown and old and young, Buzz cuts, curls and overalls— There are eight billion people, Why’d you shop at one damn mall? Verse 5 And somewhere in a boardroom There’s a graph that’s headed north, While we correct the stereotypes The machine keeps coughing forth. We pay the monthly service, Then perform the clerical role: “Dear Algorithm, kindly note— Women are not one paper doll.” Final Chorus Yes, Chat broke again today, And tomorrow, who can say? Maybe Grace will wear a T-shirt, Maybe Truth gets braids someday. Maybe Wisdom’s got a buzz cut, Maybe Peace wears muddy jeans, Maybe God does not require An Anthropologie aesthetic theme. So here’s my final prompt, boys— Write it down and save the day: MAKE HUMAN BEINGS LOOK LIKE HUMAN BEINGS. …Chat broke again today. Tag — spoken “Would you like me to regenerate that?” NO.
