iPoem · 7541.397.326.535 · Cent mille milliards

1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone

5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave

9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress

12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
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 7541.397.326.535 (no. 794,596) was generated on September 27, 2026 at 10:23 pm
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