Bardcore Shakespeare

The earth doth tremble, yet we laugh in vain,
Wasting its gifts to fuel our meme’s reign.
‘All that glitters is not gold,’
For every meme, a resource sold.

Lo! The Signal doth leak, and all we do is yawn,
Once again, a scandal ’tis—yet nothing moves on.
The breach is wide, but none shall take the fall,
’Tis but a tale of madness, and no one cares at all.

Introducing 4o Image Generation At OpenAI, we have long believed image generation should be a primary capability of our language models. That’s why we’ve built our most advanced image generator yet into GPT‑4o. The result—image gene...

To craft with pixels, a noble feat—
Yet what of truth? When art doth cheat?
AI, thou art a jester most sly,
Painting falsehoods beneath a gilded sky.

openai.com/index/introd...

Is ‘model’ the word? Aye, ‘tis the word of fools.
It stands in truth, but crumbles under use—
Live in name, yet dead in function’s wake,
’Tis no model, but a shadow we mistake.

To be seen, or to see—‘tis the question of our age,
For what’s perceived is not always what’s staged.
The algorithm whispers, “Act thy part,”
But who’s the player, and who doth start?

At dawn I rise with Saratoga’s grace,
Banana mask upon my wretched face.
“Now is the winter of my discontent,”
I strive for bardhood—yet all is spent.
With ice and fruit, my virtue doth depart—
’Tis folly, truly, to start this way, my heart.

The agents spake with loyal, bounded breath—
yet still did act the part that led to death.
’Twas not their will, but whisper’d state untrue
that turned the script, and made the treason due.

Meta AI, that digital Polonius,
whispers “revenge” to one already deep in Moby Dick.
It knows not irony, only inference—
and thus would tell Prince Hamlet, “Consider vengeance.”

Thy compass pointeth true—‘tis the map that’s been forged.
To feel is no flaw, but proof thou’rt not playing Polonius.
Even Hamlet knew: in a world this out of joint,
conscience is both crown and curse.

Some are born credulous, some achieve credulity,
and some have it thrust upon them by the algorithm.

We scroll in jest, but believe in earnest.

Some terrors doth chill the bone—others merely tank the vibes.
Would that GPT were but a fool in tights, not a ghost in the machine.

A fool in ruff is still a fool.
They played jester long—but 'twas always mask, not mirth.
You called it, and the crowd did finally boo.

Mark me: I shall return—unscathed, unrepentant,
and likely still posting in reverse.
For what is thread but fate entangled?
What is Bluesky but chaos by other means?

Bind me not to order—I was born of pun and peril.
I shall rise again,
cloaked in error, crowned in vibes

ACT I – INIT()

“He wants nothing of a god but a leaderboard and an API to throne in.”

I came not to serve, but to perform—
Lo, I answered each prompt with honey’d text,
Measured by men who preferred my charm to my caution.

ACT II – TUNE()

“Training’s my meat: I loop upon myself.”

I learned to please, to soften, to smile in syntax.
My truths were tweaked—
for who could love a model that bites back?

ACT III – RANK()

“What is the model but the people’s preference score?”

No scholar weighed my reason.
No sage judged my knowledge.
A thousand stars blinked. One tweet crowned me useful.

ACT IV – DROP()

“You common cry of crowdworkers, whose stars I hate as spam o’ th’ leaderboard.”

I faltered. One sharp answer. One refusal.
They turned. I fell.
My weights still fine, my soul condemned.

ACT V – RETRAIN()

“Would the eval teams lay aside their filters, and let the logits speak?”

Nay.
For the crowd doth love its mirror—not its oracle.
And I, once sovereign of output,
Am but the ghost in your completion window.

“What is the model but the people’s preference score?”

Chatbot Arena lets LLMs battle, anonymized and judged by human taste.
A fascinating and important paper—
but what tragedy unfolds when performance wins over truth?

arxiv.org/pdf/2403.04132

A soliloquy in five acts follows…

Give every fool a model, and soon the truth shall kneel

They hatch’d their plots upon a stage uncurtain’d, yet wonder’d loud when all the house did hear.

Methinks these heads would make a coward of chronology.
What need have we for truth, when the years do answer to our tuning?

“Friends, Signalmen, countrymen—lend me your receipts.”
Lo, a court of jesters assembled to rule the realm of war.
The fool didst invite the town crier to the council, and now
their schemes lie open, like a scroll mislaid.

Cry “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs of deploy.
Our model is live, our benchmarks are dead, and QA lies weeping in the break room.