Spam Poetry by "Roosevelt Meza"

Preface to the 1948 Edition
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray, Escapees from the cold work of living, The form sought for centuries by To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père Covering the land— Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation And I would like there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
Although December's frost killed the winter crop, Blurring the terrain, Archangel Winter, darkness on his back shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.
III. Chronology of Northern Exploration
Yes. You'd want that said, (if you
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
People might see to be the opening
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Some day someone is going to explain to me where these bizzare seemingly randomly generated texts actually come from.