411: Spam Poetry-- Revered Freight Train

It's time for another installment of one of our patented blog innovations, Spam Poetry, where we compose a stirring ode solely from the subject lines of our junk emails. This little ditty is called "Revered Freight Train." Why? The Muse of the spam folder didst ordain it.

Revered freight train
Frustrating bowling ball
Anything else you need

I can help u out

Partakers, they the remnant of the commandment

Were to pass, after the Lord miry clay, upon whom do not
Be turned and bring again then the eyes, may give unto her

Husband. And gold, From the law and I will?

With bauxite go power

For this was carried into the young people, shall be time,

Which is bundle

ye have also are all the Horites, the land also.

411: Spam Poetry Redux

It's time for another installment of one of our patented blog innovations, Spam Poetry, where we compose a stirring ode solely from the subject lines of our junk emails. This one's either about religion, or sex. Or maybe something about Chinese herbs to make our dicks bigger. Who can say?

Abram; the son of Thy soul: lothed their iniquity and olive trees and

forty and gold, and with of the midst of the Cretians are the

Cure for your penis problems.

Away and an hundred foreskins and oil; unto them, unto

a woman having spot.

The zeal second and he made up Moses, for for he came

his nutate as cyclist.

And ever: perished at her go forth

I have digged in the chief priests, and what is at the

hair; as by it: go unto her all the world according to the

Matter of fact.

How u doing?

411: Spam Poetry

Enlarge your penis, order drugs from Canada, buy cheap cigarettes and so on; they're all the grammatically incorrect enticements that flood your junk mail every day. We'll, we here at The Operator decided when the internet gives you lemons, we're going to make lemonade -- poetry lemonade. Here's a little verse cobbled together from the subject lines of spam messages in our email, we call it "Re: Tarded. I Want To Find My Love."




Safely so Solomon, did he calleth for he is it was hath two hundred
Be at commander
He calamity at eyebrow
Think this is it
Get it now
No no married
Still upset
Ufurniture
A drain
An apply
The tongs from their feet of Israel hath born). And I will do

It ain't Shakespeare, but we think it has a certain Je ne sais quoi. Then again, we're drunk.


Poetry ;Junk Mail ;Spam