iPoem · 441.864.33.329 · Cent mille milliards

1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone

5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave

9Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can’t depress
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress

12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14the best of all things to an end must come

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 441.864.33.329 (no. 791,664) was generated on August 3, 2026 at 6:08 pm
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