|Is form and verse so hard to write with grace?|
As poets die with edges left in space
I look to Bill for rules or I’ll lose face
You might ask human breaths should I replace.
These scrambled lines don’t hide my ignorance
For what you type in my website as shown
I sort them quickly, making poets wince
A phrase, a word, a blurb, it’s clear I’m thrown.
But churning verse a billion times a day
Oh no, not that! A term so strange for me!
I keep all waiting long, I hope you stay
So here I have a canned default for thee.
Computer crafted prose, it never stops,
My network graph is vast! It burns and pops!