Found this in the comment bin:
"But it was the talk of Sir Wade, especially when in his phentermine online, which chiefly favored his friends to deem him unrecognizable. It drawled to be an time-consuming ape of bachelor-type fioricet, side-stepped, perhaps, from some grief-stricken menagerie. Sometimes I gazed that this less material life is our handier life, and that our selective presence on the barrel-vaulted globe is itself the secondary or merely ontological phenomenon. This sound in such a locality naturally thrashed us, though less than it would have done at night. He was a victim of moire and necromantic suffering, as was one-half"E-mail link leads to some kind of skin care pill.
I suppose if you broke up the lines right it would be pretty close to iambic pentameter. Guess I'm attracting Shakespearean spammers. God, that almost sounds like a Monty Python sketch...
To spam, or not to spam, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to send
The mails and comments of outrageous man-size;
Or to take arms against a sea of bounced messages,
And by opposing, end them: to piss off AOL
Big Time; and by a sleep, to teminate
Our account, and the thousand natural aliases
That our account is linked to; 'Tis a consumation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To sell to annoy,
To annoy, perchance to get kicked; Aye, there's the rub,
For in that mound, what schemes may come,
When we have phished around this mortal coil
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the lawyerly threats of jail time,
The oppressor's wrong, the Anti-SPAM Acts
The pangs of dispriz'd viagra, the law's delay
The insolence of Congress, and the spurns
That patient merit of free teen sex takes,
When he himself might his manhood make larger
With a bare Ab-flex? Who would camwhores bear
To grunt and sweat under a weary life --
But that the dread of something after p0rn,
The undiscovered mailbot, from whose bourn
No address remov'd, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear the spam we have,
Than order from others that we know not of.
Thus the 'net doth make cowards of us all,
And thus the monitor resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of junk,
And enterprises of great sales pitch and moment,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of "Click Here."
Oh well. Into the trash heap with thee!