I asked ChatGPT:

Write me a poem in the style of Old MacDonald, only the farmer is farming AI slop

ChatGPT said:

Old MacSlopper had a farm,
A-I, A-I, oh!
And on that farm he rendered sludge,
A-I, A-I, oh!

With a prompt-prompt here,
And a "vibe" there,
Here a shrug, there a shrug,
Every fact a blurry smudge.
Old MacSlopper had a farm,
A-I, A-I, oh!

He grew six-fingered CEOs,
A-I, A-I, oh!
And smiling stock-photo astronauts
Who baked artisanal sourdough.

With a glitch-glitch here,
And a blur there,
Here a watermark, there an ear,
Extra elbows far too near.
Old MacSlopper had a farm,
A-I, A-I, oh!

He harvested hot takes by the bale,
A-I, A-I, oh!
"Top Ten Secrets Doctors Fear!"
Freshly copied without care.

With a listicle here,
And a buzzword there,
Here "game-changing," there "synergy,"
Nothing saying anything.
Old MacSlopper had a farm,
A-I, A-I, oh!

He fed the bots more bot-made feed,
A-I, A-I, oh!
The slop begat more shiny slop,
An endless beige stampede.

With a churn-churn here,
And a paste there,
Here a rewrite, there a splice,
Every sentence warmed up twice.
Old MacSlopper had a farm,
A-I, A-I, oh!

Then one day the server sighed,
A-I, A-I, oh!
"Please upload a human thought..."
404'd and quietly cried.

With a "hmm..." here,
And a pause there,
Here an insight, rare indeed—
Nothing left from slop to feed.
Old MacSlopper closed the farm...
A-I... I... oh.