Those twelve twenty-somethings are wrong from a technical standpoint, but language is a living thing that can change... maybe this is why there was debate on this topic at Rob's table. Whatever happens you’ll never hear me say purchased receipt in a store or red receipt anywhere else—unless they’re actually crimson and I bought them!
We live in strange times: as I was able to generate this entertaining poem between stops on the Green Line (!) while appreciating our historic subway system—since it wasn’t possible to take our historic train system from North Station yesterday due to “updates?”.
Disclaimer: the poem that follows was generated by two LLMs competing with each other (collaboratively) with minimal human attention:
In Lincoln’s fields by Codman’s grand estate,
Where history whispers through iron gate,
The Minute Men now, in reenactment’s thrill,
Relive the past with steadfast skill and will.
At Gropius House, where modern lines inspire,
It’s drawing board, not “drawn” by time’s old fire.
By Drumlin Farm, where creatures roam and play,
It’s grazing field, not “grazed” in yesterday.
On Battle Road, past Samuel Brooks’ door,
With walking path, we trace the steps of yore.
Not “walked path” worn by ghosts of war’s fierce tide,
But trails alive where reenactors stride.
At deCordova’s sculptures, bold and bright,
It’s viewing platform, standing in the light.
Not “viewed platform” faded from the scene,
But art that calls us to what might have been.
By Ponyhenge, where horses in whimsy rock,
It’s rocking horses, not “rocked” by time’s old clock.
Through reading room at Thoreau’s quiet keep,
We ponder words that run both wide and deep.
In washing stream by Walden’s reedy shore,
Not “washed stream” cleansed by rains of days before.
With cooking hearth at Hartwell’s tavern warm,
We gather ‘round, safe from the gathering storm.
Our drinking fountain quenches thirst anew,
Not “drank fountain” dry from morning dew.
The sleeping quarters rest the weary head,
Not “slept quarters” haunted by the dead.
When emails glide through digital domain,
They loop back home with read receipt again—
Pronounced as “reed,” like Lincoln’s marshland grace,
Not “red” like apples in this hallowed place.
So let us speak with voices clear and true,
In Lincoln’s lore, where names forever brew.
With running trail and writing scroll in hand,
We honor “reed,” across this timeless land.
