iPoem · 5843.415.434.999 · Cent mille milliards

1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone

5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave

9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess

12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
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 5843.415.434.999 (no. 797,230) was generated on October 13, 2026 at 8:39 pm
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