God, can you believe it's already more than a week since I last did something ridiculously obscure with literature on this site?
If your phone has predictive text, try typing this poem in a message:
Madam, awake me,
If yon inky night dost die!
Ive outraced these foes.
Pubs gave no bland reproof:
Lest pints win these cads.
Go then, woo Tom Yorke,
Tho no card saw dues;—
Soon, these obtuse odes abstain.
You've got twenty-four hours for a correct answer. You can find the explanation and "answer" in the comments. I will not vouch for the resultant found poem's beauty or comprehensibility (though it's growing on me!), but I will promise its differential purity.
Yes, I'll do anything to not do my studies.
Link: Oulipo (thanks, Jackson!)
Joseph | 2 Mar 2004