I asked Google AI to compose a poem about our favorite delve partner Brann (specifically to create a poem about an annoying dwarf hunter named Brann) and this is what it Produced I dub it Ode to Brann
Upon a mountain, stout and grand, lived Brann, the dwarf hunter of the land.
With beard of flame and eyes of glee, a sight for sore and weary company.
He’d whistle tunes off-key and loud, disturbing every solemn cloud.
His boots would clatter, heavy-soled, a story of his blunders told.
With every step, a tremor deep, that woke the gnomes from peaceful sleep.
His trusty pet, a monkey grim, called Glibb, was worse than he, it seemed.
The creature’s temper, short and foul, could chase away the wisest owl.
It’d steal your rations, shiny things, and pull the feathers from your wings.
Then Brann would laugh and slap his knee, “A bit o’ sport, you must agree!”
While foes advanced and danger neared, he’d be distracted, full of cheer.
In dungeon delves, with traps and gloom, he’d fill the chamber with his boom.
He’d pull the packs he shouldn’t pull, the party’s patience wearing thin.
“A bit o’ treasure, just ahead!” he’d shout, ignoring what you said.
Then Glibb would leap and trip a wire, and set the whole place all on fire.
His booming voice, a constant drone, as chaos claimed the path they’d known.
So here’s to Brann, the noisy dwarf, whose every hunt was a chaotic dwarf.
A hunter, yes, but of a kind, that you would rather leave behind.
For where he wandered, peril grew, and silent stalking was askew.
He’d find the treasure, sure and grand, but leave a mess across the land.