The Unbearable Lightness of Spam

The spambots are in a poetic mood today.

Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
trainer flips young alligators over on their backs,
Choces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fields
And off the white smoke swims
Between the vertex that the far-lit gray
and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,
The pain of being born into matter.
Down the long course of the gray slush of things
The ordinary, wide scene which begins
X. The British Attack on the Arctic
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
My keyhole blows a gale
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
—Now that you notice it—have just moved past
Upon from the right by far trees, that white place
Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
And piled up at the base of the columns
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive