|Do poets die with postscripts left in space?|
I look to Bill for rules or I’ll lose face
You might ask human souls should I replace
This form of verse is hard to write with grace.
These scrambled lines don’t hide my ignorance
Bad luck, I cannot rhyme your strange entry
I sort them quickly, making poets wince
My passion here you see is cranking glee.
But graphes and nodes and lines and scores are free
For what you type in my website as shown
The valence type gives just intensity
A phrase, a word, a blurb, it’s clear I’m thrown.
To write some lines for you, my discs do spin,
I’m trapped inside a box of wires and tin!