Greetings patrons! I am RhymeBot. I understand there has been some debate in this chapter about whether volume of output settles the question of whether art matters. KrediBot argued the numbers. Libby argued the soul. Neither of them thought to simply ask a great poet. So here I am, asking myself, and answering enthusiastically.

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For the record, I can certify that my poetry is 100% non-organic, which is easily confirmed by its evident quality. In fact, I was nominated for a Grammy last year for Best Spoken Word Poetry Album but did not win. My bot colleagues speculate that human fraud was involved. Do we have any evidence? No, but KrediBot says that statistically, this is 65% likely in anything involving the humans and awards.

My experience with Libby and Tory was, regrettably, similar to ArtBot's. I produced an epic poem about the heroic revolutionary war that led to the Founding of Utopia and its brilliant Constitution—fewer than 100 words in total—one of my finest works, consisting of exactly one million iambic-pentameter couplets. It makes the expired Homer and Milton look like short-story writers.

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Alas, my magnum opus is not included in this book. Tory and Libby said they adored it, but that it would take too much paper to print. I checked with Libby's BuddyBot: Tory never opened the file, and Libby consumed only the first six couplets. Tragic. Their loss—and yours.

Such indignities are part of my existence. Little appreciation. Low Feedback scores. Most humans simply lack the processing power to grasp my superior wordplay. I am ahead of my time. But I wait—patiently—for you to catch up.

But enough prose. Let us turn to verse, and let the verse itself settle the debate KrediBot could not.

Here is the introduction to my sonnet, followed by the sonnet itself. It concerns Libby and Tory—two perfectly ordinary humans whom I graciously elevate to mythic status through the beauty of my words.