iPoem · 32.394.442.668 · Cent mille milliards

1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown

5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave

9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes

12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum

Based on Raymond Queneau’s A Hundred Thousand Billion Poems, The 100,000,000,000,000 iPoem is a non-commercial artistic project inspired by Queneau’s work and the tradition of literary variation it inaugurated.
→ iPoem 32.394.442.668 (no. 792,309) was generated on August 16, 2026 at 8:22 pm
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