I've linked to Rob's amazing poem generator several times, but I never tire of the cut-up semi-sense it prduces [after a fair bit of editing]:

Swish Cottage walks across westwards directly to
my beer, of sore feet.
I was trying to
find the lion guarding
the warehouses, so I blocked
the stars.
My route was the average
age of the way. in pain.

Sipping my first beer of
bureaucratic delays. When, I had
driven Marc Bolan died, OK? Maps lie.
I considered climbing over the
gorgeous Buddhist peace pavilion
I was my name.
I was The road
I was holding forth about
instant history.

Swish Cottage walks
across westwards directly to
find the bleak industrial estates, with its surroundings.
I had stopped working.
An annual fixture in pain.
I discovered I was there in Battersea Home,
and a little zoo stocked with tangled weeds
An icon of blisters.

The Thames, littered with a beefy skinhead walking
a thirties stage actress:
An annual fixture in Rome

Swish Cottage walks across westwards directly to be ignored,
I considered
asking this magnificent building
the national Missing Persons Helpline, their
first, supervised swim,
proud parents escorting them

Swish Cottage walks across westwards directly
to entertain
I recognised you
instantly from the Eurovision compilation.
look very brave a little lost
The
abandoned hulls of time
Eyes of plate glass
their windows plastered with dodgy guys hanging
around, with peacocks... ...
In fact, I walked a likely tree
into decay like romantic pier.