I threw this together for a software developer friend ages ago. I'm not sure what became of it.
When shall we two meet again on not so fragile, faun and free. It's gossamer and lumen thread glows faint in faiyre light to see. 'Tis but a game of two ends I see, and seeing orb and net as one, dead as freth that this visionary in rattling vapour hailed shall be. Soothing these words on brow do lie, faint as the breeze of butterfly. Tis by this goal ye know our mark can't cast thy shank and boot so dark a player, gambler of the finest beam so pulleth for his beloved team. So true your tongue doth trip this day, and playing on your words I pray, that freely to my breast reply oh kiss me on my silken thigh. To Wembley, great in heart and noise this day I traced a path of joy and sit me down upon the turf did say in fairness to his face.
What pray was said, that did the red from out, it's hidden pocket dark and dank, call forth. And calling lifted high to wind, and all could see as of the day, the merry prankster sent his way. Hard on his heel with sliding stealth, assailant struck with uncloaked spite, and spiting cut, from him that quick fair turn of which his rumour stick. And thus tree felled by hideous means, and as of broken asp and twigs asunder in a heap so hideous in it's flesh gore painted with such clumsed brush that damsel, thug and priest, did faint away as bolt struck beast. What now? say you that he, like tabled Keegan, god of Tyne, in quagmires tender kiss entwinced lay down and crying for some nectar, dropping from Poisidons sponge relieved all pain and cramps of fear thus penalty and hero cost so dear.
As day to night may witness bear in truth no terror more than there was felt, and feeling thus, in all it's petty modesty did cuss, and cussing them in rounded term blew breath and balls through silk and bone. No king I'll be till I have seen the fabled fields of war, so green. The roar of battle's smoke and grime calls to the players one more time and calling here's the final sum, Arsenal 2, Newcastle 1. Day is done the field is bare, but still some scent of sweat stays there in all of England’s field and hedge, the tales of war, deaths own revenge.
Node things you've written before!