This is your automatically generated poem for today.
The conjuror eats watches pens or keys
to aggravate the layman and the shmo
he writes reviews that read like journalese
you hear your spouse pay off the medico.
I still can call to mind those hours of ease
where shoals of herring boats now lie below
that heap of goods occasions some unease
the Greeks and Romans read and thought 'what though?'
Plato's Hellas surely wasn't sot
at Chandrigar the peasant sniffs the pot
he'd really like to root out the cuckquean.
Those Latin states spin like a weathercock
the Spanish language tickles the ear baroque
the shield of vair or gold iss but briefly seen.
