Confessions of a poetry machine killer

I killed a poetry machine

Oh what shall we do,
that thing it is dead –
a poetry machine,
the best ever had.

It mixed black with blue,
it strung a mean word,
it bounced on a hue,
flipped many a bird.

You fed it a coin,
its wheels would spin,
it spat out a poem
that made you grin.

It got better at it,
more perfect each day,
that’s when I'd had it
and blew it away.

The best thing to do
now that it’s in peace
is to leave it alone,
and all at its ease.

– iself (© 2007)

Inspired by Keith O’Connor’s I killed my poetry machine.

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