The laws of mathematics postulate
the chimp creates a masterpiece
simply punching randomly the keys
infinitely sitting over them
as I do now.
I push the keys not randomly
yet no great wisdom in the rhyme
results in bright quotations, Bartlett worthy
nor words that deeply stir my own self’s soul.
How long does one need strike the keys
till come the simple words
“And gentlemen in England now abed
shall think themselves accursed they were not here?”
Methinks we will be sitting
chimp and I together
stringing words of equal polish
unto the end of the world.