human
unless you are re-writing Milton's Paradise Lost. And don't call them
gpt
There was a country printer and editor whose wristbands would have been always in mourning with his hands, if he had worn a shirt, and who always had a stale copy of his paper sticking out of a side-pocket, and smelling musty--for he used poor ink and poor ideas to match--and he was forever talking of his
human
wherever he was, and quoting from his
gpt
until people laughed about it, and said
human
If you wish to know about a word, set the children to using it. Fancy little Johnny's cry of
gpt
Oh, I've got something in my organs!