|Do poets die with numbers left in space?|
For what you type in my website as shown
You might ask human souls should I replace
A phrase, a word, a blurb, it’s clear I’m thrown.
My coding spews it forth and makes you snore
I’m trapped inside a box of wires and tin
For just that phrase, a poem is a bore
To write some lines for you, my discs do spin.
Oh but Levenshtein, your magic does haze
Oh life is long for me, so I won’t quit
It seems to me your spelling drives my daze
Requests like this do trip me, I admit.
The basic fact is easily clear for all,
Until my program sees ol’ Bill, I stall!