Snip! Scramble!

He may not be real, but he's already invading my dreams. Last night I dreamt that Roy Jay, complete with vintage prison uniform, white gloves, and eyeliner, was doing a routine where there weren't any jokes -- no, not even any "jokes." He just did his weird jazz-hands walk around the stage and exclaimed "Snip!" and "Scramble!" at intervals, in the same way that the "real" Roy Jay would say "Spook!" and "Slither!"

Accompanying this was a strangely specific mental image of what he meant by that: You could cut up a poem, or a few poems, put the pieces in a hat and "scramble" them, and then draw them out of the hat in a new, random sequence to create a new poem. I say "strangely specific" because I understood in detail precisely how to cut up a poem: into the smallest units possible without breaking up either a word or a metrical foot. For example:

I guess the logic of this is that after scrambling, you would still have a series of English words which, though mostly ungrammatical and meaningless, would still be in iambic meter. To preserve the pentameter (or whatever the original meter of the poem), just add one rule: If you draw something out of the hat that has too many feet to fit in the line, you put it back and draw a new one until you get something that does fit.

I had the hypnapompic thought that I should do this with "The Song of Wandering Aengus" -- the idea, I guess, being that this could be a step toward recovering the promised True Song. Once I had fully woken up, that didn't make any sense, and I wasn't sure dream-Roy Jay was someone I should be taking advice from, but I did it anyway -- the digital equivalent using random.org, not actual paper in a hat. Here's what I got:

Are done I will a fire her lips

And caught and times when I out to

And hilly lands and ran and take

A berry to with wandering

Am old white moths though I and pluck

I went and peeled and moth-like stars

Through hollow lands a stream and cut

The floor me by my head her hands

The hazel wood had laid and hooked

Till time were flickering out a-flame

Long dappled grass a glimmering girl

I dropped the berry in become

And walk it on a thread her hair

But something rustled on to blow

A hazel wand where she the wing

With apple blossom in was in

The fire the moon it had the sun

Who called and faded through me by

I went my name because among

The silver apples of were on

And when the floor the brightening air

The golden apples of has gone

And kiss a little silver trout

And someone called find out my name

Most of it is, as you would expect, gibberish, but I found the last line evocative. Did someone call (shout), "Find out my name!" -- or is it someone called (known as) Find Out My Name?