|Can truth be told, it’s terse my work’s not Zen?|
Oh no, not that! A term so strange for me!
Iambic verse has rules and guides my pen
So here I have a canned default for thee.
These scrambled lines don’t hide my ignorance
I’m trapped inside a box of wires and tin
I sort them quickly, making poets wince
To write some lines for you, my discs do spin.
But basic facts are easily clear for all
My coding spews it forth and makes you snore
Until my program sees ol’ Bill, I stall
For just that phrase, a poem is a bore.
An algorithm tight and terse I need,
This meter sings, but lacks some content speed!