Fun with ChatGPT

I got this idea after reading a comment this morning about someone who’d used the chatbot to write a train cancellation notice in the style of Revelations. I knew I’d have to try this. I promise. I’ll stop, but what a riot. It doesn’t get e. e. cummings but does well with Robert Service. OK, I promise I’ll stop now.

Please write an advertisement for toilet paper in the style of William Blake

“Soft as an angel’s wing, pure as the driven snow,
Our toilet paper doth cleanse and soothe.
No harshness to be found, no splinters to assail,
A comfort to the body, a balm to the tale.

In fields of white, our rolls do lay,
Ready to fulfill their noble duty each day.
So let not your tushie suffer or moan,
For with our toilet paper, you shall be forever known
As one who chooses luxury and grace,
Over harsh and rough, a true connoisseur of the loo’s embrace.”

Can you write an advertisement for toilet paper in the style of Robert Service?

“In the wild and rugged land, where the outhouses stand,
And the winds of fate do howl and moan,
There’s a need for something soft, to wipe away the oft,
Less savory bits that cling and groan.

Enter our toilet paper, strong and true,
With its quilted softness, it’ll see you through.
No more rough and scratchy, no more of that,
Just smoothness and comfort, where’er you squat.

So heed the call of the wild, and heed it well,
And bring our toilet paper with you, through the dells.
For when nature calls, and calls with might,
You’ll be glad you have our toilet paper, to make it right.”

An ad for toilet paper in the style of e.e. Cummings?

&rustle(s)of(the)leaf(es) there(is)a(place) w

it(is)an(exclamation) of(softness)
a(caress) an(ode)to(cleanliness)

our(toilet)paper dance(s)on(your)skin s
ing(s)to(your)soul and(leave(s)you)feeling


After making me laugh it again asserted it has no power to feel and therefore cannot have fun. It’s a pity. Maybe you’ll have fun.

12 thoughts on “Fun with ChatGPT

    • Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
      It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”
      And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
      Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”

      Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
      Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
      The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
      And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

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