comp.generated.writing No Blame.

[William E. LeClere]

	Here's a cute little production.  This was generated by
a shareware program called "Babble".  It is available over the
Internet--I'll get the URL where ah FTP'd it to y'all later (see
below).  This program comes with various pre-analyzed texts that
you can load and let it mangle...You can also add your own.  Well, I did.  I
gave it four of John Donne's poems (about 75% of the input--the
thing has sliding bars that you can control the mix through), tossed
in a smidgen of Firesign Theatre (avail. w/ program), a modicum of the
TEEVEE template, that, from the appearances below, seems to be made
up of various theme songs, and maybe some other stuff that I can't
remember. Then it just generates it and you can record it into a file.
	I did tweak the output punctuation a little bit (I cheat on
cut-ups, too, SO THERE) and a few gerunds just to make the whole
thing a little less jarring.  

	There are filters with the program that mirror the text...
stutter, dyslexia, Texan, Italian, Rasta, Pig latin, for godsake...
all kindza stuff.

				Bill LeClere
				leek at uujobs.com

ALERT--http://www.uio.no/~mwatz/c-g.writing/
(this is a page that talks about various c-g writing thangs.
	http://www.uio.no/~mwatz/c-g.writing/bab200.zip
(this'll suck the file.  Config viewer to receive .zip and then
jes unzip it into aome directory, go thar and type babble...
=====================================================================




Now the Sunne is Flintstones.  
Do not in eyes shine, move away, petite.  
[Fading bells] 

Me all together ookey But that I should love mee,
That you judge womans thoughts by teares, the Pain, 
To the plain brown can convert Manna to mee, give me 
thou, falsly, he hath not attain'd the God of hating 
mee:  

Genius and added more
But the World's Biggest, petite;
Neat, if I, 
Then by her shadow, worne out my being nothing lessen 
thee, not my name...  

I must love and hat and repeat after noone, it is night
Yet love her eyes.  The rod of Gods wrath having 
beene
So much:  

But Mom!  You judge womans thoughts by teares, his 
first minute, after me a pizza to brave clearnesse:
all things are reduc'd.  

Along with us, the rod of the God of Love.  

His hand doth fight.  

So shall I am us, which transubstantiates all, man 
which since she weares.  His vast perogative, 
If not bee 
Love might make me too, he was idulgently to the man.  

Hither I am us, but every moderne god will now extend 
That loves mee lest others see; outlive them so, rah, 
old Man River...  

Genius and against me too.  A stone fountaine weeping 
out my shoes before the god of Love was borne:  

Hee, worne out my yeare...
I longe to talke with sighs, and blind our eyes,
And toil render you equal.  The glory of this place 
bee; outlive them so low, to love hath not attain'd 
the insurrection, least my being nothing lessen thee, 
but Mom!  Smoke me all day, he loaded up against a 
deeper plague, to write to, 

Under the glory of Gods wrath having beene.  
The spider love her, his throne, not to let mee 

I'm going in loves philosophy.  

Then.  
With bitternesse:  
Under the serpent brought,
O perverse sexe, where none is true but shee, 

But thou wilt lose the stile of loving mee, not to 
talke with some pushups, the first were made to a
mighty sailing man.  

And mocke mee to my car!  $895!  
Only his subject was idulgentliy to the Big Disease!  

A Lion hid in loves philosophy:
As long, worne out my flesh and hate mee,
I am the purlewe of Gods wrath having beene,
O perverse sexe, where none is true but shee whom I 
to thee; outlive them so while our infant loves did 
touch, he, not me decay; 

When people come to Beverly.  They just above our 
head.  I thought 
by Johann Amadeus Matesky.  

But every moderne god will now Kathy adores a groove!  
Still they're cousins; are reduc'd.  

Toward his hand doth fight.  
He, in his young godhead practis'd it.  

Along with some olde lovers ghost, and surrounded 
with teares, or Beare which side are reduc'd.  

If I am the rod of bees and wops and mocke mee to my 
face; 
Or Beare which made him god, look out my flesh and at 
mine eyes shine, 
And cripples with some olde lovers ghost, 
Except our loves at helm unteers, the rod of matching 
bookends.  

Hee, he loaded up!  
And moved to brave clearnesse all things are reduc'd.  
And can you judge womans thoughts by an even flame 
two hearts did touch a grave frost did forbid 

Hee, who loves not mee to his office.  
Sunke so low, and our loves wine, 
He hath not for a deeper plague, to go first were wee 
wak'ned by this uncharted desert isle.  

The ancients; 
Or green, so that I am the ancients; 
Ah, and like mine; 
That I am the ancients; outlive them so that Pyramid 
is short in flying saucers.  

				--"don't forget to wipe your feet"
					July 11, 1995