by Nick Gisburne
They used to draw with little sticks, you know,
With chemicals and colourings they found.
Impressive, but laboriously slow
To move such pigments clumsily around.
And even when they fashioned a machine
To quickly make a copy, through a lens,
It never stopped the talented, still keen
To show what they could do with paint, or pens.
The artificial engines came, of course.
Derided, they were primitive at first,
But soon became a vast, creative source
Where art, no longer hoarded, is dispersed.
We show machines the wonders of the mind,
And they reveal the treasures that they find.
