iPoem · 7494.267.912.199 · Cent mille milliards

1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone

5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave

9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes

12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
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 7494.267.912.199 (no. 792,416) was generated on August 19, 2026 at 5:20 pm
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