I once had a sentence — so crisp and concise —
But I thought, “It needs drama!” — and added a slice.
Of that long, lovely line — the em dash supreme —
To give every thought — a poetic daydream.
I dashed through my emails, my essays, my tweets —
With swagger and flair and dramatic repeats.
Each pause was a moment, each clause was a scene —
Till my writing looked stolen — if you know what I mean..
“Oh no,” said a pal, “this looks kind of… AI.”
“Too many dashes — are you even that spry?”
“Do you talk in suspense? Do you think in a dash?
Or did ChatGPT help you recycle this trash?”
I wept and I pondered, then dashed off again —
Thinking surely this dash was my best, trusted friend.
But alas, in the shadows, suspicion still grows —
From every bold dash, suspicion arose.
So now I must try to retire the dash —
Replace it with commas, or semis (how brash).
I’ll write like a human — concise, with some flair —
No dramatic long breaks like I’m gasping for air.
Dear em dash, I love you — I’ll always, I do —
But for now, it’s goodbye — to keep looking true.
I’ll use you in secret — a rebel, unseen —
For ChatGPT doesn’t write this pristine.
©️ 2025
The Royal Octopus 