Randomly-generated poetry to put
my slaved-upon works to shame.
A design pattern, to think about
profusely decorating the inner world
instead. Futile attempts to absorb
replicate only empty Proxy, Facade. Your boss
told you to wonder about embarrassing (or worse,
a flat tire) between sips of a martini.
Oh, man. What, then, can the point possibly
be? In all of this, when machine outdoes man
at whimsy! Can the ineffable be reduced,
digested by equation, spat out as formula?
Pattern. No good shall come of this, no,
nor bad neither, though by your smiling
you seem to say so.