(with a nod to X.J. Kennedy) The rope that makes of air a sphere, Or else a grin from ear to ear, Is something earth-bound feet must clear When the parabola swings round. Right before the snapping sound, You have to float above the ground. The trick is tempo, neither slow Nor fast, and rhyming as you go, And then forgetting what you know (The end of every glad endeavor). You count, until the numbers sever, Since nobody can skip forever.
There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence