An ode to Tosh

[jimmyscoular]

I told ChatGPT to: "Write a rhyming poem about John Toshack."

In less than five seconds it spat out this epic of English literature.

Great, innit? Almost as good as Tosh's own stuff.

John Toshack, a name so bold,
In football stories, often told.
A striker with a scoring knack,
In the game, there's no looking back.

From Wales he hailed, with skill and grace,
On the pitch, he found his place.
With every goal, he earned his fame,
And in the hearts of fans, he'd claim his name.

In Liverpool's red, he made his stand,
A legend in that storied land.
With Shankly's guidance, he would rise,
To claim the trophy, the ultimate prize.

Toshack's headers, a deadly force,
He'd steer the ball on its destined course.
A towering presence in the box,
Defenders feared those lethal knocks.

But Toshack wasn't just about the score,
He'd track back and give even more.
A team player, with passion and grit,
In every game, he'd commit.

From Swansea's Vetch Field to Real's grand stage,
His football journey, an epic page.
John Toshack, a legend, true,
In the beautiful game, forever blue.

[Steve the Tea]

I told ChatGPT to: "Write a rhyming poem about John Toshack."

In less than five seconds it spat out this epic of English literature.

Great, innit? Almost as good as Tosh's own stuff.

John Toshack, a name so bold,
In football stories, often told.
A striker with a scoring knack,
In the game, there's no looking back.

From Wales he hailed, with skill and grace,
On the pitch, he found his place.
With every goal, he earned his fame,
And in the hearts of fans, he'd claim his name.

In Liverpool's red, he made his stand,
A legend in that storied land.
With Shankly's guidance, he would rise,
To claim the trophy, the ultimate prize.

Toshack's headers, a deadly force,
He'd steer the ball on its destined course.
A towering presence in the box,
Defenders feared those lethal knocks.

But Toshack wasn't just about the score,
He'd track back and give even more.
A team player, with passion and grit,
In every game, he'd commit.

From Swansea's Vetch Field to Real's grand stage,
His football journey, an epic page.
John Toshack, a legend, true,
In the beautiful game, forever blue.

And not a word about Cardiff City.

StT.
<><

[fingers]

And not a word about Cardiff City.

StT.
<><

Forever blue?

[Taunton Blue Genie]

It's astonishing. I just sign up to it and asked for a poem about 'Sludge Factory' and although it didn't come up with a ditty about our left wing, right-handed palm pounder it came up with this within 3 seconds:

In the heart of industry's relentless churn,
Lies a place where molten dreams do burn,
A factory of sludge, a world of grime,
Where shadows dance in the muck and slime.

Beneath a smog-choked, ashen sky,
Where steel behemoths reach up high,
The sludge factory's fires never tire,
In its bowels, a ceaseless, burning pyre.

Machinery clangs, an iron symphony,
As workers toil in this dark cacophony,
Their faces etched with sweat and soot,
In the sludge factory, life's no tenderfoot.

From the ore, they forge their wares,
Amidst the filth and noxious airs,
With soot-stained hands, they craft their art,
In this world of industry's beating heart.

But in this place where dreams seem lost,
And the price of progress is the greatest cost,
A glimmer of hope can still be found,
In the beauty of things, both lost and found.

For in the sludge's murky flow,
Beneath the grime and the ceaseless woe,
Lie treasures of forgotten grace,
In this factory's desolate embrace.

So, remember, amidst the sludge and grime,
The resilience of the human spirit's prime,
In the sludge factory's relentless thrum,
Hope and art can still overcome.

[Jimmy the Jock]

As workers toil !Sludge?

[life on mars]

Jack Bastard

[Mr Soul '68]

Here's one on Earnie:

In soccer's realm, a name well-known,
A striker with a talent shown.
Robert Earnshaw, quick and spry,
Beneath the stadium's open sky.

From Cardiff to the MLS he roamed,
With every goal, his legend's honed.
A journeyman with feet of gold,
In tales of football, his story's told.

With lightning pace, he'd burst ahead,
A scoring instinct, never misled.
In red or blue, and many more,
Earnshaw's prowess fans adore.

His celebrations, full of glee,
A somersault, for all to see.
The passion in his eyes so clear,
For the game, he held it dear.

A striker's heart, a lion's soul,
In the beautiful game, he played his role.
With every goal, he etched his name,
In football's hall of lasting fame.

Though time has passed, the memories stay,
Of Robert Earnshaw's glorious day.
A striker, a legend, forevermore,
In football's history, he'll forever soar.

[Mr Soul '68]

Here's one on Ramsey:

In Wales, where valleys echo song,
A football talent rose, strong and long.
Aaron Ramsey, a name that gleams,
In the land of dragons, he chased his dreams.

Midfield maestro, with a golden touch,
In red and white, he meant so much.
A beacon of skill, with a tireless stride,
Through ups and downs, he'd never hide.

From Cardiff's youth to Arsenal's crest,
His journey put his skills to the test.
The Emirates faithful knew his name,
In Ramsey's honor, they'd cheer and acclaim.

With deft passes, and goals galore,
Ramsey's presence left fans wanting more.
He danced on grass, with a graceful flair,
In the world of football, a star so rare.

The Euro stage, he truly shone,
A hero for Wales, in battles won.
In France, a dream that came alive,
Ramsey's magic made the nation thrive.

Though his journey took him far and wide,
The heart of Wales, he never denied.
In the football story, he's a graceful page,
Aaron Ramsey, a legend for every age.


Change the Arsenal references to City's and we have a new chant, albeit, a long one

[jimmyscoular]

It's astonishing. I just sign up to it and asked for a poem about 'Sludge Factory' and although it didn't come up with a ditty about our left wing, right-handed palm pounder it came up with this within 3 seconds:

In the heart of industry's relentless churn,
Lies a place where molten dreams do burn,
A factory of sludge, a world of grime,
Where shadows dance in the muck and slime.

Beneath a smog-choked, ashen sky,
Where steel behemoths reach up high,
The sludge factory's fires never tire,
In its bowels, a ceaseless, burning pyre.

Machinery clangs, an iron symphony,
As workers toil in this dark cacophony,
Their faces etched with sweat and soot,
In the sludge factory, life's no tenderfoot.

From the ore, they forge their wares,
Amidst the filth and noxious airs,
With soot-stained hands, they craft their art,
In this world of industry's beating heart.

But in this place where dreams seem lost,
And the price of progress is the greatest cost,
A glimmer of hope can still be found,
In the beauty of things, both lost and found.

For in the sludge's murky flow,
Beneath the grime and the ceaseless woe,
Lie treasures of forgotten grace,
In this factory's desolate embrace.

So, remember, amidst the sludge and grime,
The resilience of the human spirit's prime,
In the sludge factory's relentless thrum,
Hope and art can still overcome.

This one's actually not so bad. Needs a little work, but it's 85% there.

[Taunton Blue Genie]

This is one about an aubergine on a bike:

In a garden, where the sun does shine,
A tale of whimsy, both strange and fine,
There stood an eggplant, plump and tall,
Ready to embark on a quest for all.

Its skin, a deep and vibrant hue,
Purple majesty, a splendid view,
In a world of green, it dared to be,
An eggplant on a bike, wild and free.

With handlebars gripped by its leafy hand,
It pedaled through the fertile land,
Tires spinning on the path it chose,
A vegetable on wheels, it clearly knows.

The wind whispered secrets in its ear,
As the eggplant cycled, without fear,
Through rows of carrots, aubergines passed by,
On this bike, it reached for the sky.

Zucchinis waved, tomatoes did cheer,
As it wheeled through fields, far and near,
The eggplant's journey, a remarkable sight,
A two-wheeled adventure, under the sunlight.

Up hills and down dales, it did roll,
A culinary explorer, with a veggie soul,
On this bicycle, no task too tough,
For an eggplant with dreams, that's quite enough.

In the end, it found a patch of ground,
A home among vegetables, it had found,
But the memory of that ride, forever dear,
An eggplant on a bike, without peer.

[jon1959]

If you insist
on doggerel verse,
show mercy then
and keep it terse.

[NYCBlue]

Remember Phil Stead's poem? I'm sorry to use his real name but I can't remember his username. Jesus, I can barely get through it still. Amazing. He evoked everything about us and them and then rolled in the football part. Genius. I would cry if I read it now.

[D. Advocaat]

This is one about an aubergine on a bike:

In a garden, where the sun does shine,
A tale of whimsy, both strange and fine,
There stood an eggplant, plump and tall,
Ready to embark on a quest for all.

Its skin, a deep and vibrant hue,
Purple majesty, a splendid view,
In a world of green, it dared to be,
An eggplant on a bike, wild and free.

With handlebars gripped by its leafy hand,
It pedaled through the fertile land,
Tires spinning on the path it chose,
A vegetable on wheels, it clearly knows.

The wind whispered secrets in its ear,
As the eggplant cycled, without fear,
Through rows of carrots, aubergines passed by,
On this bike, it reached for the sky.

Zucchinis waved, tomatoes did cheer,
As it wheeled through fields, far and near,
The eggplant's journey, a remarkable sight,
A two-wheeled adventure, under the sunlight.

Up hills and down dales, it did roll,
A culinary explorer, with a veggie soul,
On this bicycle, no task too tough,
For an eggplant with dreams, that's quite enough.

In the end, it found a patch of ground,
A home among vegetables, it had found,
But the memory of that ride, forever dear,
An eggplant on a bike, without peer.

Moved to tears. Beautiful.

[Eric the Half a Bee]

I just tried to get it to write a Haiku about Cardiff City. Here was it's attempt...


Bluebirds take the pitch,
Cardiff's pride, in red and blue,
Dreams rise to the sky.