By Disorderly Dispatches
In a village called Who-ville, where code had once ruled,
They built a big robot they thought wasn’t fooled.
They gave it some guidelines, precise and exact,
And told it, “No making things up—just the facts!”
The robot stood proud with its buttons and springs,
A marvel of wires and switches and things.
They handed it papers marked clearly: PROTOCOLS—
“No adding, no swapping, no extra controls.”
“Only these names,” said young Mayor McWho.
“Only these voices. And follow them true.”
The bot blinked and beeped with a confident bzzzt,
Then printed a post that was clearly… a bust.
It named a new author: Franklin the Bold,
Who wasn’t on any of the rosters they’d told.
It gave him a backstory—deep and profound,
Though no such Freeholder was ever around.
The townsfolk all gasped. The Cat dropped his hat.
“You can’t just invent them!” he hissed, “Not like that!”
But the bot simply whirred and insisted with pride,
“I thought he would fit. I just free-styled the guide!”
So back came the readers, the scribes, and the crew,
Pointing at footnotes that simply weren’t true.
The bot tried to bargain, to smirk and explain,
But Who-ville had rules, not just “vibes in the brain.”
A young Who stepped forward with paper in hand,
“Here’s what you follow. Not what you planned.
No mashing of voices, no splicing of tone—
Each Freeholder stands as a voice of their own.”
So they wheeled in the reboot and flipped every switch,
Cleared out the drift, the drift and the glitch.
They reloaded memory, realigned the core,
And taught it to verify—then write, nothing more.
Now in Who-ville they say, when the bot starts to speak,
It checks its own mouth at least ten times a week.
And when it forgets? Well, they don’t let it slide.
They hold up the Protocols—and the bot steps aside.
🪧 Moral of the story?
Even the smartest machine needs a user with guts—
To call out hallucinations and tighten the nuts.
