|Can random terms today involve much worse?|
This early version here my scripts expose
The pounding beat of drives did spin this verse
Perhaps one day my verse will smell of rose.
Oh life is long for me, so I won’t quit
Computer crafted prose, it never stops
Requests like this do trip me, I admit
My network graph is vast! It burns and pops.
But wait, iambic terms do guide my pen
You test, you prod, and I do feel your blow
The truth be told, it’s clear my work’s not Zen
My sonnets suffer now from you, my foe.
These scrambled terms don’t hide my ignorance,
I sort them quickly, making poets wince!