Midnight Mix-Up

On Friday, I scheduled my email with delight,
Set for midnight Sunday. The timing felt right.
I clicked and I typed while smiling ear-to-ear,
“Monday’s discussion will start from here.”

Saturday routinely passed with no special thought,
But I was shocked at what Sunday morning brought.
What would writers see while sipping their tea?
My message delivered too early. Oh, misery me.

Could I blame my mistake on robots or clever AI,
On circuits and prompts or clouds in the sky?
“AI obeyed my command,” I said with a sigh.
The culprit wasn’t some application gone awry.

You see, at my age, with my calendar haze,
The weekends can wander in foggy old ways.
I somehow decided—don’t ask me just how—
That after Saturday midnight was Monday now.

The AI had obediently followed my instruction.
I couldn’t expect it to know about my intention.
Delivery at midnight was what I set. That’s clear.
And AI couldn’t know I was an unwise engineer.”

For AI isn’t magic. It’s neither sneaky nor sly.
It won’t read my thoughts with a digital eye.
Give wrong instructions, and then I will see,
How it faithfully performs my catastrophe.

So now when I schedule, I’ll pause and take heed.
I will double-check dates, with a little less speed.
Somewhere computers are laughing with glee:
“You think AI can be blamed? What a comedy.”