Editor’s note: No ChatGPT was prompted to create this poem. Robert deserves all credit (or blame) for the twists on the original by Clement Clarke Moore.
’Twas the night before break, when all through our firms,
No marketer stirring, not even interns.
Content was set in the calendar with care,
With the hopes that AI might soon bring some flair.
Practitioners nestled, all snug in their beds,
While names for Taylor and Travis danced in their heads.
Maybe Swelce, Tayvis, or Traylor is best,
Not since Barbenheimer has there been such unrest.
Then my wife on TikTok, and I on Reddit,
Had settled our brains from memes we’d embedded.
She smirked and asked, “Name a woman, can you?”
In a fluster, I answered, “Someone like you!”
Apparently, I passed — she smiled and swiped up,
Leaving me happy that I hadn’t effed up.
But then, in our house arose an explosion,
I swiped to my Nest cam to see the commotion.
I couldn’t see much, so I sprang from my sheets,
And scurried to see what was disturbing our peace.
I expected to spy a crashed Chinese balloon,
Or Linda Yaccarino, loud excuses anew.
But what to my marketer’s eyes did appear,
Pixels resembling Elon Musk with a beard.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
But his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
He looked, as Google said, elegant and grand —
But on second glance, I spied something wrong with his hands.
Fingers combined like an alien elf,
I laughed when I saw it, in spite of myself.
A St. Nick made with generative AI,
In need of tech support because he wasn’t quite right.
He spoke not a word and went straight to his hot takes,
Filling the web with awful written mistakes.
“Recession is coming; blogs are sure to fall.
GenAI surely will replace us all!”
“Give me a post, the style of Joe Pulizzi.”
LinkedIn comment spam, oh so very cringey.
He was no Santa, not even the minimum,
Just a digital influencer working the algorithm.
But then came a clatter, a rattle, a hum,
And a real sleigh entered my room from above.
The real Santa! His eyes, how they twinkled!
And his hands – five digits each – properly crinkled!
With a whistle and shout, he rolled up on Threads,
“I’m off of X,” he said. “Twitter is dead!”
Then, faster than Altman got fired and rehired,
AI-generated Santa was duly retired.
Real Santa opened his bag, chock full of gifts,
Promising all marketers would be given their wish.
“More budget, more resources, innovations galore!
And a reliance on humans, more and more”.
“Now brand! Now creative! Now purpose and tech!
Content ops! Strategy! Check, check, and check!”
Then, with a wink and a wave of farewell,
He flew off with a whoosh, leaving a jingle-bell trail.
I felt great relief, with wonder and dreaming,
Next year will be filled with a true focus on meaning.
Then I heard him exclaim, and he yelled with true cheer,
“The right answer is Swelce! Have a happy new year!”
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Cover image by Joseph Kalinowski/Content Marketing Institute
