by Eddie Aderne

“Where once people were duped by soft-focus photos and borrowed chat-up lines,
now they have to watch out for computer-generated charm.”
—The Guardian

“Mon cher amour,” exhaled the dying Cyrano,
“There’s something you must hear tonight before I go:
The tender words, the praise—all absolutely true—
The love—” Roxane cut in: “I know all that was you:
You hid your love, I know, and I’m aware of why:
It was your nose!” “No, no,” he wheezed; “’twas all AI!
I started, yes, but, though I lasted quite a while,
I somehow lost my knack for précieux courting style:
I didn’t sound like Christian—good; his stuff was twee;
But by degrees I found I didn’t sound like me.
And so I asked a bot, “Do Cyrano!” It did;
And no one knew (till now) the sum of what I hid.
Adieu, amour!”
Roxane sat dazed. That wit! Those rhymes!
“I loved one man,” she sighed; “I’ve lost him now three times.”