a sonnet to integrate derivatives...

A timeless response:

If these humble and crooked lines present
all thy regards, woes and sorrow,
in them we must feel the scent
of the poets of tomorrow...

To rhyme is all but gift,
to engender words ain't prize,
words that're meaningfullessly adrift
without an aim, or unwise...

But, lo, thou shall be
the poet of a new breed,
with numbers as thy seed.

The swaps, thou shall see,
will be thy perfect rhymes,
for Wall St., a million times...