iPoem · 5301.2763.992.101 · Cent mille milliards

1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3old corned-beef’s rusty armour spreads disease
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone

5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave

9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes

12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
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 5301.2763.992.101 (no. 802,529) was generated on October 28, 2026 at 3:58 am
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