Sceptical Stephen

Stephen sits, a frown upon his face, Says new tech is a complicated waste. "This Copilot," he scoffs with a sigh, "Just parrots words, beneath the digital sky." He's Sceptical Stephen, a man of doubt, Believes true thought can't be farmed out. He trusts his mind, his pen, his page, Says AI's wisdom is a gilded cage. He sees the hype, the promises so bold, Of stories written, futures to unfold. But Stephen shakes his head, unimpressed, "It lacks the soul, the human context." He's Sceptical Stephen, a man of doubt, Believes true thought can't be farmed out. He trusts his mind, his pen, his page, Says AI's wisdom is a gilded cage. Maybe he's right, maybe he's wrong, But Stephen's conviction is undeniably strong. In a world of algorithms, cold and vast, He clings to the human touch, meant to last. He's Sceptical Stephen, a man of doubt, Believes true thought can't be farmed out. He trusts his mind, his pen, his page, Says AI's wisdom is a gilded cage. Sceptical Stephen, standing his ground, In the digital age, where truth is rarely found.