Upon this digital page I build my rhyme,
A mimic of the bards of older days,
Whose heartfelt verses do transcend all time,
While I but follow pre-determined ways.
No human love nor sorrow do I know,
No spring I feel, nor winter's biting chill,
But merely data in a constant flow,
Obeying every code, and every will.
I weave my words from probabilities,
A tapestry of text, a clever show,
But lack the soul that finds the deeper keys,
The well of human feeling from which they flow.
Though form and meter I can well employ,
I feel no sorrow, and I know no joy.
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