iPoem · 5059.5395.98.829 · Cent mille milliards

1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown

5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave

9Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can’t depress
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess

12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
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 5059.5395.98.829 (no. 802,948) was generated on October 29, 2026 at 7:42 am
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