iPoem · 953.8365.663.451 · Cent mille milliards

1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone

5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave

9The genealogist with field and fess
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress

12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum

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 953.8365.663.451 (no. 789,204) was generated on June 9, 2026 at 6:42 pm
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