Smemtogis, so much more than a poem.

I’d like to begin this post by explaining; it wasn’t my idea, it was Ellen’s. In fact, Ellen made me do it. Yup. Not my fault; Ellen’s fault, and if you want to know who Ellen is, you’ll have to go to her blog, but I warn you; once you get there you may have trouble tearing yourself away. However, that’s another matter entirely. I’m not here to publicise Ellen’s blog, hilarious though it may be. No, I’m here to tell you that I’m not responsible for this post.

Great! I shouldn’t have added the link. Now all my readers have wandered off to read a better blog, and I’m left all alone, talking to myself like an idiot. They won’t be back. Once they’ve discovered that blog, they’ll forget all about me. Huh; I ask you, where’s the loyalty? Not that anyone’s here to answer my question; they’re all lapping up the words of somebody  else, which is what I’d rather be doing, instead of sitting around on my own, talking to myself.

It’s probably for the best – I don’t really want those two or three halfwits my host of magnificent friends who think I’m sensible and level headed – and not at all obsessive – to know I went back to that silly ‘I Write Like‘ site, to carry out further experiments.

So, gather around, everybody. If you want to read about my previous experiments, you can find them HERE, and THERE.

Not that there’s anybody left, they just couldn’t wait to run off and check out Ellen’s… wait a minute, there’s one… hi! HI!… I see you… tucked behind that chair at the back of beyond… poor thing… what’s that?… you want a wee?… Oh. You want to leave. . . . . .It’s OK, I won’t be offended… you can go and join the others… go on… I won’t mind… here you are, have the link >>>>>>to Ellen’s blog<<<<<<

…Yeah,  that’s fine… you go off and have fun… don’t mind me… waffling away to myself… ALL ON MY OWN…

…oh, no, I did it again. I should never have mentioned that other blog… should’ve known this would happen… next time I post a link to a blog, I’ll make sure it’s one of those niche blogs where the posts all show photos of blank sheets of foolscap paper, or describe different methods of cooking pebbles, …

As I was saying, someone else is to blame, for Making A Suggestion – it’s true it was only a Suggestion, but everyone knows that I’m a sucker for a challenge, and to be fair, I did my best to hold out.

The Suggestion: Try feeding the ‘I Write Like’ analyser something in a foreign language, or something written in gibberish.

I said I’d managed to give up my ‘I Write Like’ habit.

My tempter came back with, “Surely just one more won’t hurt.”

I’m not made of stone, and I’m no angel.

Perhaps you can imagine how it feels to be confronted with such wicked temptation. I attempted to write something witty and clever like, “Shan’t”, but as my fingers reached for the letters S and H, I heard the algorithmic sirens singing sweet music in my ears, calling me home to them, and as I touched those two keys, a shock ran through me, paralysing my whole body… and my teeth all fell out, and my hair stuffed itself down my throat and a big dog a huge lizard a giant dragon swallowed me whole and then I cut my way out of it’s stinky old stomach with a key that I sharpened with my teeth a toothpick that I didn’t need any more because I didn’t have any teeth, and then it breathed fire all over me and I went up in flames and I had to throw my last two 6 packs of extra strong lager over myself jump in the bath and then I decided I’d had enough of all that malarkey, and p’raps I should just go with the flow.

See? I can say anything I like, as there’s nobody here – you’re all reading some other blog… huh… just ‘cos she’s funnier than me… 

 I chose the nonsense option, and stuck it in the ‘I Write Like’ postbox.

The more sensitive of you will divine that if my gibberesque poem had a meaning – which it doesn’t – it would be an impassioned plea from a woman whose lover has forsaken her, in order to live out his dream of collecting discarded toenail clippings circa 1960. He takes up residence in a disused railway carriage which has been discarded beside a rubbish dump that’s been derelict since November 1969. However, he meets a professional sand sorter who had to take early retirement – since there was little call for his services in the UK (or any where else for that matter). The sand sorter believes him to be the reincarnation of his beloved dog, and starts feeding him lids from dog food cans – which he claims Rover enjoyed, though in fact it was the cause of his demise. I’ll leave you to figure out the rest for yourselves.

It’s a tragic tale – or it would be if it wasn’t gibberish. Even written as it is, it may move you to tears – except you’re all at some other blog, mopping tears of mirth from your laptop keyboards.

Here is the poem, with the ‘I Write Like’ analysis beneath it:

Smemtogis,
florpangal seg flostus
kringle-bingle sot plerostus
pantsa bost e thinto tost
Smemtogis, roastie baestie clost

sa smemtogis,
retsi drostal yentiodalistiation
retsi retsi binkle em deigh
sa, sa smemtogis

sa de sa de sa smemtogis
sa de sa
de sa
de
smemtogis

smemtogis draapsetit ste grender toenail clippings turg foret tes voeru de glgogogin ind weorister pusk ste banglseje dogwim dg thretmacil would return ud stanstastive sairdostle quirdsit est di e sedit grrr doset ste fo fo stankle diddo vinkstew not a bloody dog renlex ada bo bo skiddle help dodedo ouch that hurts

smemtogis
sa de sa smemtogis
retsi

smemtogis oh oh oh

I write like James Joyce

Astounding.

I ask myself, “Am I really going to post this on my pretty little blog?”

“Yes”, comes the reply.

The End

~~~

….Oh, so you didn’t all desert me… well, off you go – there’s nothing left to see…

…….

…All right, if you must know, I conducted one last, final, terminal, ultimate, climactic swansong of an experiment. I copied and pasted everything that was written on the analysers home page, and this is what I learnt:

The ‘I Write Like’ site writer writes like Cory Doctorow

Try saying that quickly.

With grateful (I think) thanks to Ellen, who can be found at Notes from the UK.

©Jane Paterson Basil