This is an actual poem from the current issue of The Paris Review

Here you go : "Write me a villanelle about John Wick"

John Wick, the Baba Yaga's name,

A legend of death, a man of fame,

His foes fall hard, to his deadly game.

A dark past, his demons to blame,

But revenge is his, his foes to maim,

John Wick, the Baba Yaga's name.

No mercy given, no mercy to claim,

His will of steel, a burning flame,

His foes fall hard, to his deadly game.

With guns in hand, his aim so tame,

His shots so precise, no need for aim,

John Wick, the Baba Yaga's name.

He fights alone, no need for a team,

His will so strong, a force supreme,

His foes fall hard, to his deadly game.

His path of vengeance, a relentless stream,

But his love for his wife, a constant theme,

John Wick, the Baba Yaga's name,

His foes fall hard, to his deadly game.

Exactly. If a literal computer could do it, how can you call it poetry? Try getting a mere automaton to shit out this masterpiece.