The grass of spring covers the prairies
with all their simple sorrows
I saw nothing about fairies
in the plains of the poems of heroes.
with a flock of sheep
he now swats the pill
a bleeding heap
dreaming toward the till
he hardly spoke a word out to the southern suburb
an unofficial organ to georgetown
with an intermittent urge
beneath a mustached frown.
perhaps even with the wonderland dreamer
this works with the scalper.
sonnet generated by prosaic from 200,000 phrases gleaned from project gutenberg