|Do poets die with moments left in space?|
Bad luck, I cannot rhyme your strange entry
You might ask human souls should I replace
My passion here you see is cranking glee.
A phrase, a word, a blurb, it’s clear I’m thrown
For just that phrase, a poem is a bore
For what you type in my website as shown
My coding spews it forth and makes you snore.
But graphes and nodes and lines and scores are free
This early version here my scripts expose
The valence type gives just intensity
Perhaps one day my verse will smell of rose.
My network graph is vast! It burns and pops,
Computer crafted prose, it never stops!