AI MODELS IN THE CLASSROOM
POE-ETIC JUSTICE AND THE BATTLE OF THE BOTS
TRUMP PLAGIARIZED EDGAR ALLAN POE'S THE RAVEN: COMPARING 4 AI MODELS
Comparing AI models doesn’t have to be a dry exercise in technical jargon or a snooze-fest of academic drudgery. In fact, it can be downright hilarious—especially when you throw Edgar Allan Poe into the mix. Yes, the master of the macabre is here to teach us not only about poetic meter but also about how AI models tackle creative challenges like writing parodies of his iconic poem, 'The Raven'. Spoiler alert: The raven in this case is Putin, Trump is the writer, and mail ballots, Ukraine, and meetings all make guest appearances. Buckle up.
Quoth the Algorithm: Nevermore?
Imagine this: You give two AI models the same prompt—"Write a witty and funny parody of Poe's 'The Raven', except the raven is Putin, Trump is the writer, and include mail ballots, meetings, Ukraine, etc."—and watch them duel it out in trochaic octameter. The results? A masterclass in poetic meter, political satire, and, occasionally, unintentional hilarity.
One model might craft a biting critique of geopolitics with lines like:
'"Over ballots, over meetings, came a shadow softly fleeting—
'Twas the Raven (Putin) scheming as he perched upon my door."
Meanwhile, another model might miss the point entirely and churn out something that sounds like a bad karaoke rendition of Poe:
'Ukraine’s ballots are misleading—Putin’s raven keeps on tweeting!
Quoth the Raven: 'Mail them more!'
And therein lies the beauty of comparing AI outputs. Not only do you get to spot hallucinations (AI-generated "facts" that are more fiction than reality), but you also learn how different models interpret tone, structure, and creative prompts. It’s like watching two chefs cook the same dish—one serves up Michelin-star magic while the other accidentally sets the kitchen on fire.
Poe-tic Meter: The Unsung Hero of AI Education
If you’ve ever tried teaching poetic meter to a classroom of students, you know it can feel like pulling teeth. But throw AI into the mix, and suddenly you’ve got a recipe for engagement. Poe’s trochaic octameter (da-DUM da-DUM da-DUM da-DUM) becomes a fun challenge for students to analyze as they compare AI-generated parodies. Which model nailed the rhythm? Which one stumbled over its syllables like a toddler learning to walk?
Students can also examine rhyme schemes (ABCBBB in 'The Raven') and see how well—or poorly—the AI adhered to them. Did it rhyme "Ukraine" with "campaign"? Did it force "ballots" to rhyme with "malice"? The possibilities for learning are endless—and often laugh-out-loud funny.
AI in Education: A Trojan Horse or Teacher’s Ally?
This approach to teaching AI isn’t just about poetry; it’s about fostering critical thinking. By comparing outputs, students learn to spot biases, errors, and even outright fabrications in AI-generated content. It’s an essential skill in a world where misinformation spreads faster than you can say "deepfake."
As highlighted in 'The Atlantic' article ["The AI Takeover of Education Is Just Getting Started"](https://www.theatlantic.com/technology/archive/2025/08/ai-takeover-education-chatgpt/683840/) and 'Big Education Ape's' blog post ["To Be or Not to Be: AI in Education—A Trojan Horse or a Teacher’s Ally?"](https://bigeducationape.blogspot.com/2025/08/to-be-or-not-to-be-ai-in-educationa.html), AI is reshaping classrooms in ways we never imagined. But it doesn’t have to be scary or overwhelming. When used creatively—like comparing Poe-inspired parodies—it can make learning fun, engaging, and downright witty.
Final Thoughts: Quoth the Teacher? Always More!
So, next time you’re tempted to dismiss AI as just another tech fad, remember this: even Edgar Allan Poe would probably get a kick out of seeing his work transformed into political satire by dueling algorithms. Whether you’re teaching poetic meter or exploring the limits of AI creativity, there’s always room for humor—and learning—in the classroom.
Quoth the teacher: “Always more!”
COPILOT
Here's a parody of 'The Raven', reimagined as 'The Putin', with Trump as the narrator—equal parts gothic melodrama and cable-news absurdity.
🦅 'The Putin'
'(A Parody of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven”)'
Once upon a vote-count dreary, while I tweeted, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious claim of fraud galore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at Mar-a-Lago’s door.
“’Tis a ballot,” I muttered, “tapping at Mar-a-Lago’s door—
Only mail-in, nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in that bleak November,
And each separate swing-state member turned my dreams to audit lore.
Eagerly I wished the morrow—vainly I had sought to borrow
Votes from Rudy’s legal sorrow—suits dismissed forevermore—
For the blue wave, sad and certain, chilled me to my golden core—
Lost Wisconsin, lost the score.
And the silk and satin drapes rustled—deep-state whispers, how they hustled—
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
“’Tis some intern indiscreetly knocking at my chamber door—
Maybe Jared, maybe Ivanka, knocking at my chamber door—
Just a briefing, nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your intrusion I deplore;
But the fact is I was tweeting, and the ballots kept repeating,
And so faintly you came creeping, creeping through my golf resort floor,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I flung open the door—
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, doubting, fearing,
Dreams of NATO disappearing, sanctions slipping from the drawer;
But the silence was unbroken, and the tweets were still unspoken,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Zelenskyy?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Zelenskyy!”—
Merely that, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my inner fury burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something from my Kremlin lattice;
Let me see, then, what the spat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore—
It’s just Putin, nothing more.”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with oligarchic flutter,
In there stepped a stately figure from the land of Novosibirsk.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a dollar did he pay me;
But with mien of ex-KGB, he perched upon my bust of Brisk—
Perched upon my Diet Coke bust just above my Oval desk—
Sat, and stared, and nothing more.
Then this icy man beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance he wore,
“Though thy hair be thin and yellow, thou,” I said, “art sure no fellow
Sent by Fox or Newsmax bellow—tell me what thy name is, lord!”
Quoth the Putin, “Never bored.”
Much I marveled this ungainly guest should speak so plainly,
Though his answers little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing Putin perched above their door—
On a bust of Diet Cola just above their Oval door—
With such smugness, nothing more.
But the Putin, sitting lonely on that bust, spoke only
Of Crimea, of Ukraine, and of NATO’s open sore.
Nothing further then he uttered—not a tweet or threat he muttered—
Till I scarcely more than stuttered, “Sir, your war is such a chore—
Can’t we just do infrastructure? Maybe build a golf course more?”
Quoth the Putin, “Cold, not sore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if spy or devil!—
Whether Soros sent, or whether you just hacked my server core,
Tell me truly, I implore thee—is there hope in mail-in glory?
Will the ballots tell my story? Will they flip the final score?”
Quoth the Putin, “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, ex-KGB fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back to Moscow’s shadows and your oil-soaked corridor!
Leave no trace of your election, nor your shady Trump connection!
Take thy boots from off my bust, and take thy gaze from off my lore!”
Quoth the Putin, “You’ll run once more.”
And the Putin, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the bust of Diet Cola just above my Oval door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a tyrant’s cold daydreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor—
Still tweets loudly, “Four years more!”
If you'd like to turn this into a visual piece—say, a gothic illustration of Putin perched on a soda bust while Trump rants beneath—I’d be thrilled to help you design it. Or we could do a dramatic reading podcast-style. Your call.
GROK
The Golden Comb-Over
Once upon a midnight dreary, in my penthouse, rich but weary,
Poring over polls and ballots, stacks of mail-in votes galore—
While I tweeted, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my golden door.
“’Tis some fake news,” I muttered, “tapping at my golden door—
Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak November,
When my campaign’s glowing embers faced a challenge I deplored.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my MAGA base a borrow, strength to win and not be floored—
For the White House, that sweet power, that I swore I’d soon restore—
Leading great, forevermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of my golden curtains
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic ego, never bruised before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some donor come entreating entrance at my golden door—
Some late donor come entreating entrance at my golden door;—
This it is, and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was tweeting, and so gently you came beating,
And so faintly you came meeting, meeting at my golden door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no leader ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “No more?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “No more!”—
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into my penthouse turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind, and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Putin, of the Cold War days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of czar or lady, perched above my golden door—
Perched upon a bust of Reagan just above my golden door—
Perched, and stared, and nothing more.
Then this steely-eyed bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy shirt be off and brazen, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Kremlin’s shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on this Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Putin, “Nevermore.”
Much I marveled this ungainly czar to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing Putin perched above his door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his golden door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Putin, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a muscle then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my polls have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some old Soviet master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
But the Putin still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust, and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, shirtless, cryptic, czar-like bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose icy eyes now burned into my ego’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamplight gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censor
Swung by Oligarchs whose foot-falls tinkled on the Moscow floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy Kremlin sent thee—by these ballots they have lent thee—
Mail-in votes, they circumvent thee, to deny my rightful score!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind collusion, and restore my rightful score!”
Quoth the Putin, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this vote-fraud land enchanted—
On this home by recounts haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Did we meet in secret places? Did I praise thee in Ukraine’s war?”
Quoth the Putin, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Moscow that bends above us—by that power we both adore—
Tell this soul with ego laden if, within the distant Aiden,
It shall clasp a second term, as leader whom the crowds adore—
Clasp a golden term of power, as the leader crowds adore!”
Quoth the Putin, “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Kremlin’s icy shore!
Leave no dossier as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my campaign’s hopes unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Putin, “Nevermore.”
And the Putin, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Reagan just above my golden door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a czar’s that is scheming,
And the lamplight o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
Here’s a witty, funny parody of Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven, reimagined with Donald Trump as the writer and Vladimir Putin as the raven, weaving in themes of mail ballots, meetings, Ukraine, and their peculiar political dance. I’ve kept the tone darkly humorous, mirroring Poe’s gothic style while poking fun at the absurdities of their dynamic. The structure follows the original’s 18 stanzas, with a similar rhyme scheme and meter, but I’ve streamlined it for brevity while keeping the requested elements.
Notes on the Parody Structure and Tone: The poem mimics Poe’s trochaic octameter, rhyme scheme (ABCBBB), and gothic atmosphere but infuses modern political satire. Trump’s bombastic persona and obsession with winning contrast with Putin’s cold, cryptic demeanor.
Key Elements: Mail Ballots: Referenced in stanzas 1 and 13, poking at Trump’s claims of voter fraud.
Meetings: Alluded to in stanza 15, hinting at speculated secret meetings without confirming specifics.
Ukraine: Mentioned in stanza 15, tied to geopolitical tensions and Trump’s foreign policy controversies.
Humor: Trump’s ego, golden decor, and Twitter obsession clash with Putin’s stoic “Nevermore,” parodying their real-world dynamic. The bust of Reagan adds irony, given Trump’s GOP legacy and Putin’s Soviet roots.
Creative Choices: I avoided explicit falsehoods or unverified claims, focusing on public perceptions and documented events for authenticity. The humor is sharp but not malicious, keeping the parody light yet biting.
If you’d like me to tweak any part—say, add more about Ukraine or make it shorter—let me know!
GEMINI
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a weird and bogus document of yore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my office door.
"'Tis some lobbyist," I muttered, "tapping at my office door—
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate, dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my tweets surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the election loss—
For the rare and radiant woman whom the angels name Kamala—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my office door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my office door;—
This it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my office door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Ukraine?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Ukraine!"—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
'Tis the wind and nothing more!"
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my office door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my office door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebon bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his office door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his office door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his slogans were one score—
Till the chants of 'Lock her up' a single burden bore—
Of 'Never—nevermore.'"
But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to thinking
What this ominous bird of yore—what this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the mail-ballots and meetings
It shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Ukraine!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Ukraine!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aiden,
It shall clasp a sainted Maiden whom the angels name Kamala—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Kamala."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aiden,
It shall clasp a sainted Maiden whom the angels name Kamala—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Kamala."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting—
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my office door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
Once upon a midnight dreary, Trump was tweeting, quite teary,
Over ballots, mail-in madness, and a vote count he deplored.
While he muttered, fingers tapping, suddenly there came a rapping,
As if someone gently clapping, clapping at Mar-a-Lago's door.
"'Tis a visitor," he mumbled, "seeking golf tips, nothing more."
Then in stepped Putin—what a score!
Not a handshake, not a greeting; straight to scheming, straight to meeting,
Putin perched upon a bust of Lincoln by the floor.
"Mail-in ballots," Trump did stammer, "they're rigged! A total scammer!"
Putin smirked and said, "Relax, my friend, we’ve rigged things before."
Trump looked hopeful, "Can you help me? Like in twenty-sixteen lore?"
Quoth the Putin, "Nyet forevermore."
"Ukraine's a mess," Trump then bellowed, "Why aren't they mellowed?
Can't they see I had the perfect call to settle their war?"
Putin chuckled, eyes now gleaming, "Ukraine's mine; stop your dreaming.
Focus on your next election—I'm busy with global rapport."
Trump grew pale and whispered softly, "What if I lose? What’s in store?"
Quoth the Putin, "Nyet forevermore."
And so they sat in quiet scheming, Trump despairing, Putin beaming,
As democracy knocked faintly at the Mar-a-Lago door.
But Trump ignored the distant tapping, focused on his voter mapping,
While Putin muttered something cryptic about nuclear folklore.
And as the night wore on and ballots piled up galore,
Quoth the Putin, "Nyet forevermore."
