Poetry Play

Occasionally, I dabble in verse.
Rising to the challenge to write about my hair using a Scottish Burns stanza, I came up with this:

A number one cut hides history
My follicles are mystery
Dark colour faded so swiftly
Now blinding white
And standing on end all bristly
O what a sight!

Okay, right number of lines, syllable count is fine, rhyming sequence correct – what does it lack? I asked Co-Pilot, my AI on-hand critic, how to improve it, give it that genuine kilted Scottish flair. It was merciless! It used five A4 pages to excoriate and educate me on the finer points of Robert Burn’s literary techniques. Then it rewrote my offering thus:

My bonnie pow—aye shorn sae bare,
Whar raven tress lay thick wi’ care,
Now bleached like snaw, nae dark remains there,
White as the drift,
Each bristle stands in winter air—
Och, what a lift!

I think I better stick with something I know.