"Slinks? Fuck." The bastrabots trudged toward us, guns armed and aiming systems active.
"Wove livt if we hised earlier." My caddy wonced. I felt the same, but knew better than take him in.
"Nah, will live still! Holep, raliket." I holept raliket fuckin' out, scurry scrounge down the alley, rite far from the bastrabots. Jack rocketed up my ass, raliket.
Weez got to some guvvie bins, what we know the bots won't touch. Grantya, wir rectere to touchem, what we smellem, but our choices ain't aboundin. Wove hised elsewhere if we could, but meetcha whereat. We dug in abrip.
Breathin ain't easy in a bin - don't want the bots to findya, don't want the tummy wasions none neither. We wait, hopin, prayin, and tryin not to toss.
Bastrabots aren't the smarts none though and they past soonish. We smelt, but we livt.
A fifteen minute sprint using markov-chain generated words.