There once was a writer who had tools galore,
Software and hardware—and much, much more.
He said, “AI can do the work for me, I know.
But without the author’s voice, the words didn’t go.
A tool is a helper, not a boss or a brain.
It helps with the load but won’t drive the train.
Like a sander smooths where your arm would be sore,
It works with your hands, but it won’t finish the chore.
We’re thankful for blenders that whirr and spin.
They mix up the things we could never mix in.
But we choose the ingredients, stop, start, and speed.
The blender obeys—doing everything we need.
Now misuse a tool and—oh my, oh my—
You’ll sand off too much or splatter the pie.
A hammer mis-swung bends thumbs left and right,
And our shortcuts can turn into messes overnight.
So writing tools hum. They click and they glow.
They help the work, but there’s more to show.
If tools make the story, the voice goes away.
The meaning runs off, and the color turns gray.
The work is still yours when your AI is well-trained,
When judgment stays human and your heart is retained.
You guide. You decide. You say, “Yes,” “Stop,” or “More.”
That’s the authorship’s rule—and something we can adore.
So use all your tools with a grateful, “Hooray!”
Let them do heavy lifting—but not lead you astray.
For tools serve the maker, not the maker the tool,
And writing works best when you’re driving the rule.
