|Do poets die with poems left in space?|
My passion here you see is cranking glee
You might ask human souls should I replace
Bad luck, I cannot rhyme your strange entry.
My limits find no reader, hence it’s tossed
Oh life is long for me, so I won’t quit
When finding verse on topics rare, I’m lost
Requests like this do trip me, I admit.
But graphes and nodes and lines and scores are free
Computer crafted prose, it never stops
The valence type gives just intensity
My network graph is vast! It burns and pops.
My poems suffer now from you, my foe,
You test, you prod, and I do feel your blow!