"Socks" [original poetry generated electronically]

Today, while doing some research on mercantilism and inflation for an upcoming GekeVenn, I took a break to have a bit of fun with a poetry generator: http://www.poem-generator.org.uk/

Now, I should probably mention that I'm a moderator at The Writers' Block, specifically, in their central hub for all things flowery and emotion-laden: the Poetry Workshop. But writing my own poems can be taxing and time-consuming, and today had enough worry of its own. So you can probably now see the origin of my afternoon's dalliance.

Enough of this, eh?

Following the generator's instructions, I input a few nouns and adjectives (the majority of which didn't show up in the poem at all) and clicked Submit. After some loud clanking and ominous churning noises emanating from the British interwebs, my UK poetry generator spit out this first iteration of my new and mostly effortless poem:

Needless to say, I loved this! It was exactly the type of semantic conglomeration @oozincouth might submit under the #f-art tag! Prevented from coitus for the sake of dirty laundry... Was the laundry a looming task? Did it cover the bed, preventing reclination? Did the smell put them off? The subtexts were endless and I contemplated my new poem's layers of meaning for several minutes.

But then, I scrolled down and read this: "Refresh until you're happy with your poem. If we found multiple possibilities, refreshing will display different versions." Giddy with power, I clicked Refresh several times and the poetry gold just kept coming:

But the editor in me couldn't let all this pleonasm stand without a touch-up and a tightening. And so, below is my final stab at post-modern Anglo-Saxon digitally generated poetry:

Because I could not breed
for soiled socks,
they did most kindly multiply for me.

My pair of two became, in hours, thirteen.....

one lost
to
the dryer
and its evil,
soul-enweepening
despair

And my underpants,
rhetorical as usual,
complained
in a Ginsbergian floral print:

do not go crotchless into that good night.

Rage! Rage!
against the dying of a
generation

and their noyingful, nannyist nite-lite, a-nooned,
when the sun's at full apex
and no one really needs it anymore.

Disclaimer: this poem was not workshopped
by the good people at The Writers' Block.