The Poetry of Splogs

After the poetry of spam, the poetry of splogs.

Don't ask how, but I ended up here a few minutes ago:

They were all old and once besondern, and all of a fishermanship of moss-green days. This morning, the recessess of the apsara, while I was whisking the drawing-room, I went to the isoude, which was wide open, to shake out my duster, and there, vestito by the gate, stoop'd Accomplish.

etc.

It may not be poetry, but it has a certain charm. Or maybe it's just me.