iPoem · 5044.6495.911.812 · Cent mille milliards

1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone

5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave

9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce

12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14they’re kings we’re mammal-cousins hi ho hum

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 5044.6495.911.812 (no. 800,436) was generated on October 22, 2026 at 10:34 am
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