The ease of fooling computers

Come, Muse, to our Mystical Chorus,
O come to the joy of my song,
O see on the benches before us that countless and wonderful throng,
Where wits by the thousand abide, with more than a Cleophon's pride-
On the lips of that foreigner base, of Athens the bane and disgrace,
There is shrieking, his kinsman by race,
The garrulous swallow of Thrace;
From that perch of exotic descent,
Rejoicing her sorrow to vent,
She pours to her spirit's content, a nightingale's woful lament,
That e'en though the voting be equal, his ruin will soon be the sequel.
Well it suits the holy Chorus evermore with counsel wise
To exhort and teach the city; this we therefore now advise-
End the townsmen's apprehensions; equalize the rights of all;
If by Phrynichus's wrestlings some perchance sustained a fall,
Yet to these 'tis surely open, having put away their sin,
For their slips and vacillations pardon at your hands to win.
Give your brethren back their franchise.
Sin and shame...