To the Tune of “The Invisible Man” by Queen

 I have been thinking about what it means to write "political" poems, not just "news that stays news," but also about my own positionality in relation to Singapore politics. Sometimes New York and Singapore connect, unknown to anyone else. For example, I wrote the poem below thinking of both the criticism of Singapore writers of the National Library Board's use of generative AI and my own thoughts after the AI training at my Manhattan independent school.


To the Tune of “The Invisible Man” by Queen 

“68 Singapore writers sign statement criticising National Library Board’s ‘uncritical endorsement’ of generative AI”—The Straits Times, January 08, 2025 

We heard the miller bragging 
 To both the young and old,
I have a wonder for a daughter
 Who spins straw into gold.

The King, desirous of talents,
 As Lazybones of bed,
Ordered the girl to spin till morning
 Or off with her head!

In a prison dark and musty,
 The girl, limp as a leaf,
For a childhood torn up already
 Cried and cried in grief.

No more to wander in the forest
 That gave her not a look,
Nor travel to marvelous cities
 In the course of a book.

Then a man, an imp but shorter,
 Appeared out of the air.
He said, give me your necklace
 And I’ll save you from despair.

The girl agreed to the bargain
 And, prompted by her eyes,
The imp spun all her promptings
 Into the golden prize.

How did straw turn into metal?
 The girl had not a clue.
How does AI generate stories?
 Don’t we wish we knew.

The gold gleamed brighter than
 The sun over the hill.
Grabbing his loot, the man-imp
 Vanished into the chill.

Throwing open the prison,
 The king gaped at the gold.
Make me, he said, more riches,
 Riches untold.

The girl sank to the flagstones
 As more straw was brought in.
How could her heart not wish for
 Her tiny savior again?

As if to answer her wishing,
 The imp, in a blink
Of a cursor, arrived and asked for
 Hmmm, let me think…

A ring! A loss of the fingers
 After the loss of mind.
We know what comes next:
 The loss of our kind.

Will we name the evil?
 Will we kill the king?
Will we stop the fathers
 And their blustering?

You can write the ending
 Of this Fairy Tale.
You can decide if fancy
 Will succeed or fail.

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