|Can't I just slay this now? I ask a break!|
So here I have a canned default for thee
Oh please, dear soul, I ask some verse to make
Oh no, not that! A term so strange for me!.
My sonnets suffer now from you, my foe
I’m trapped inside a box of wires and tin
You test, you prod, and I do feel your blow
To write some lines for you, my discs do spin.
But please ask human souls to take my place
My coding spews it forth and makes you snore
As poets die with edges left in space
For just that phrase, a poem is a bore.
So I will bore you now, just wait and find,
As random thoughts my words can grate, can grind!