|Levenshtein, can your magic null the haze?|
These scrambled lines don’t hide my ignorance
It seems to me your spelling drives my daze
I sort them quickly, making poets wince.
My sonnets suffer now from you, my foe
So I will bore you now, just wait and find
You test, you prod, and I do feel your blow
As random thoughts my words can grate, can grind.
But no! Don't ask me now for verse on this
I’m trapped inside a box of wires and tin
It’s hard inventing it, for I will miss
To write some lines for you, my discs do spin.
So here I have a canned default for thee,
Oh no, not that! A term so strange for me!