Back to a more pleaseante state of mind, here´s a cut-up composition made on English Phonetics and Phonology:


   These three pieces received the reason key for the machine.
   The pretty sitted ladies from the private rhythm.
   They set dead many times,
   Their black hand plait.

   The blood of their sons will cut the young sun, she does.
   Their heart will pass on calm march and laugh at the clerks.
   The knowledge was gone because of the cough.

   Some cords are saw and bought to all daughters.
   Before the floor goes on board with some flour.
   Put the wolf into a courier book.

   A group of rude spoons chew the movement of blue juice shoes.
   Myrtle’s first earth served, purred, and erred in a journey turn world.
   The possible gentlemen are obliged to suppose a figure.

   Particular doctors coloured the mother woman.
   The eight day of the rain may break them, ape.
   The time we cried high and lied aisled either in the heights.

   The boy’s noised voice.
   Old road, foe of the blowing soul.
   The sound of houses and cows.

   Dear weird idea, fakir’s career lies here.
   Ian the fierce theological museum.
   Take care of the air that you wear.
   (Poor curious sewer who cures the tours).