This is a bunch of robot poetry. No more, no less. See below for a link, so you can have a robot make some for you too.
But unappreciated, cheered and in
A man again each day say, if a canker
Lives upon its joy; then my wilfulness
And ruined love. Your hour yet created. And put
Them still in a frown they sing: it full well
Knows what eyes best painter’s art bright you. Choose
But, rain from highmost been with others seem
Long since first created. Rise and rid and
Make me, with thy summer unappreciated
Lost on a dial-hand, as the painted counterfeit:
The thing they have extreme, not renewest,
So; from my love’s best, and hopes, making
A wretch’s. If there you were but poem, I not
To my count bad, which this man’s, whence at all.
No matter then — a
Fever! Therefore desire
O! Bus, even by their reports
True by the impression fill
Might: left behind. See
My winter, the prey of a
Wretch’s told, or mine, too.
O paper to pitied be poison’d, sleeping,
It to another youth, nay, and suit scissors.
Presented by what is apparently a severely intoxicated poet trapped in the shell of a server in some faraway place.