iPoem · 524.9765.933.252 · 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
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone

5It’s one of many horrid happenings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave

9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress

12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14they’re kings we’re mammal-cousins hi ho hum

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 524.9765.933.252 (no. 793,623) was generated on September 11, 2026 at 11:44 am
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