This is your automatically generated poem for today.
When each of you with all his heart agrees
consuming tea and nibbling cream gateaux
he'd much to learn despite his four degrees
which freshens up the tribal rumbelow.
The Parthenon horse is shivering in the bise
the mob demands that verse be comme il faut
the flanks protected by chevaux de frise
with moth and rust we settle all we owe.
Faced with mud you'll turn up your culotte
at Chandrigar the peasant sniffs the pot
if you drink mate you're an Argentine.
Those transalpine relations interlock?
we're sorry that no whales came back to dock
the metromaniacs outdo the great Racine.
