iPoem · 523.963.109.339 · Cent mille milliards

1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone

5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave

9Platonic Greece was not so talentless
10what things we did we went the whole darned hog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address

12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
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 523.963.109.339 (no. 798,872) was generated on October 18, 2026 at 3:59 am
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