The Old Man:

The good ole poet,
Who drinks mostly Moët,
He learns about BTC,
Surely it’s a fantasy.

Let us figure this out,
Then loudly we can shout,
Bitcoin is the best money,
Our future bright and sunny.

Say “buy the dip”,
When higher prices flip,
Dip in your toe,
But not in crypto.

Don’t ever be silly,
It’s gotta be BTC,
Buy but never reset,
It’s our best asset.

It is said Bitcoin is his hoard,

You’ll find it under a floorboard,
Didn’t have money, sold his Ford,
To invest in what he could afford.

When prices are down, he’s a clown,
Hold on for dear life, don’t frown,
When prices are up, he sells nought,
AI’s money are bits, one or nought.


A gamble, a hope, what the heck,
Stay humble, keep the sats you stack,
Jingle jangle, the coins don’t chime,
Trust me people, invest your every dime.

Sure it’s true, bitcoin is volatile,
Dollar-cost averaging, it’s not futile,
Bitcoin is digital gold, digital capital,
It will boom and crash, never fatal.

Bitcoin, best thing money can buy,
Fiat paper money buying best money,
That’s so silly we ought to cry,
Selling sats for cash, not funny.

Grok’s reply:

The poet of old, with Moët in hand,
Discovers BTC, a fantasy grand.
He puzzles, he ponders, then cries aloud,
“Best money, best future, forever unbowed!”

“Buy the dip!” they chant when prices fall,
But dip your toe, not your soul, in the sprawl.
Don’t be foolish, they warn, it’s BTC or bust,
Our best asset, they swear, in it we trust.

His hoard, they say, lies under the floor,
Sold his Ford, gave all, and then some more.
Invest what you can, but when skies turn gray,
Hodl tight, dear life, let no fears sway.

When prices soar high, don’t sell, don’t fold,
A gamble, a hope, a tale retold.
No chime, no jingle, just silent stacks,
“Invest every dime!” they cry, no turning back.

Volatile, oh yes, it swings and it shakes,
Crocodile tears for the losses they make.
Digital gold, a capital dream,
Boom, crash, repeat—don’t scream.

Bitcoin, they say, the best to acquire,
Yet fiat buys it, a twist to desire.
A paradox silly, a reason to weep,
Selling sats for paper, a promise too steep.