iPoem · 5041.792.838.935 · Cent mille milliards

1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone

5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave

9The wolf devours both sheep and shepherdess
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess

12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum

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 5041.792.838.935 (no. 799,244) was generated on October 19, 2026 at 4:16 am
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