|Is this some wit humanity can’t bare?|
This early version here my scripts expose
Oh man, that’s a tough phrase, so odd, so rare
Perhaps one day my verse will smell of rose.
This form of wit is hard to write with grace
Computer crafted prose, it never stops
I look to Bill for wits or I’ll lose face
My network graph is vast! It burns and pops.
But finding just the wit for your delight
My sonnets suffer now from you, my foe
I pass my life to make more time to write
You test, you prod, and I do feel your blow.
When finding wit on topics rare, I’m lost,
My limits find no reader, hence it’s tossed!