The text I chose was from "Eunoia," by Christian Bok. It's a book of poetry divided into five chapters -- each of which uses only one vowel. This is a very small excerpt from the "i" chapter:

Hiking in British districts, I picnic in virgin firths, grinning in mirth with misfit whims, smiling if I find birch twigs, smirking if I find mint sprigs. Midspring brings with it singing birds, six kinds (finch, siskin, ibis, tit, pipit, swift), whistling shrill chirps, trilling chirr chirr in high pitch.

This is what I got after a simple English-->French-->German-->English translation.

Increasing the British plans of the zone, I have rustic food inside the ample flooding of the young, with moods of missed clothes, smiling if I encounter slightly the forest, the birch - to the smile of a shaken ventilator, if encountering pieces to coin. Midspring comes with him from the direct birds of the son, six types (pinzón, siskin, ibis, cowardly, hissed, traveled), urgent squeak of chirr of chirr, in ring of the lance of the backward movement.

You can't beat "with moods of missed clothes."

And to think I was translating Le Monde using this same software. I thought the French were just stupid.

Just for the hell of it, here is what I believe to be the whole chapter:

Writing is inhibiting. Sighing, I sit, scribbling in ink
this pidgin script. I sing with nihilistic witticism,
disciplining signs with trifling gimmicks -- impish
hijinks which highlight stick sigils. Isn't it glib?
Isn't it chic? I fit childish insights within rigid limits,
writing schtick which might instill priggish misgiv-
ings in critics blind with hindsight. I dismiss nit-
picking criticism which flirts with philistinism. I
bitch; I kibitz - griping whilst criticizing dimwits,
sniping whilst indicting nitwits, dismissing simplis-
tic thinking, in which philippic wit is still illicit.

Pilgrims, digging in shifts, dig till midnight in mining
pits, chipping flint with picks, drilling schist with drills,
striking it rich mining zinc. Irish firms, hiring micks
whilst firing Brits, bring in smiths with mining skills:
kilnwrights grilling brick in brickkilns, millwrights
grinding grist in gristmills. Irish tinsmiths, fiddling
with widgits, fix this rig, driving its drills which spin
whirring drillbits. I pitch in, fixing things. I rig this
winch with its wiring; I fit this drill with its piping. I
dig this ditch, filling bins with dirt, piling it high, sift-
ing it, till I find bright prisms twinkling with glitz.

Hiking in British districts, I picnic in virgin firths,
grinning in mirth with misfit whims, smiling if I find
birch twigs, smirking if I find mint sprigs. Midspring
brings with it singing birds, six kinds (finch, siskin, ibis,
tit, pipit, swift), whistling shrill chirps, trilling chirr
chirr in high pitch. Kingbirds flit in gliding flight,
skimming limpid springs, dipping wingtips in rills
which brim with living things: krill, shrimp, brill -
fish with gilt fins, which swim in flitting zigs. Might
Virgil find bliss implicit in this primitivism? Might
I mimic him in print if I find his writings inspiring?

Fishing till twilight, I sit, drifting in this birch skiff,
jigging kingfish with jigs, brining in fish which nip
this bright string (its vivid glint bristling with stick
pins). Whilst I slit this fish in its gills, knifing it, slicing
it, killing it with skill, shipwrights might trim this jib,
swinging it right, hitching it tight, riding brisk winds
which pitch this skiff, tipping it, tilting it, till this ship
in crisis flips. Rigging rips. Christ, this ship is sink-
ing. Diving in, I swim, fighting this frigid swirl, kick-
ing, kicking, swimming in it till I sight high cliffs,
rising, indistinct in thick mists, lit with lightning.

Lightning blinks, striking things in its midst with
blinding light. Whirlwinds whirl; driftwinds drift.
Spindrift is spinning in thrilling whirligigs. Which
blind spirit is whining in this whistling din? Is it
this grim lich, which is writhing in its pit, lifting its
lid with whitish limbs, rising, vivific, with ill will in
its mind, victimizing kids timid with fright? If it is -
which blind witch is midwifing its misbirth, binding
this hissing djinni with with witching spiritism? Is it this
thin, sickish girl, twitching in fits, whilst writing
things in spirit-writing? If it isn't - it is I; it is I …

Lightning flicks its riding whip, blitzing this night
with bright schisms. Sick with phthisis in this driz-
zling mist, I limp, sniffling, spitting bilic spit, itching
livid skin (skin which is tingling with stinging pin-
pricks). I find this frigid drisk dispiriting; still, I fight
its chilling windchill. I climb cliffs, flinching with
skittish instincts. I might slip. I might twist this in-
firm wrist, crippling it, wincing whilst I bind it in its
splint, cringing whilst I gird it in its sling; still, I risk
climbing, sticking with it, striving till I find this rift,
in which I might fit, hiding in it till winds diminish.

Minds grim with nihilism still find first light inspir-
ing. Mild pink in tint, its shining twilight brings bright
tidings which lift sinking spirits. With firm will, I finish
climbing, hiking till I find this inviting inn, in which
I might sit, dining. I thirst. I bid girls bring stiff drinks
- gin fizz which I might sip whilst finishing this rich
dish, nibbling its tidbits: ribs with wings in chili, figs
with kiwis in icing. I swig citric drinks with vim, tip-
ping kirsch, imbibing it till, giggling, I flirt with girl-
ish virgins in miniskirts: wink, wink. I miss living
in sin, pinching thighs, kissing lips pink with lipstick.

Slick pimps, bribing civic kingpins, distill gin in stills,
spiking drinks with illicit pills which might bring bliss.
Whiz kids in silk-knit shirts script films in which
slim girls might strip, jiggling tits, wiggling hips, in-
citing wild shindigs. Twin siblings in bikinis might kiss
rich bigwigs, giving this prim prig his wish, whipping
him, tickling him, licking his limp dick till, rigid,
his prick spills its jism. Shit! This ticklish victim is
trifling with kink. Sick minds, thriving in kinship
with pigs, might find insipid thrills in this filth. This
flick irks critics. It is swinish; it is piggish. It stinks.

Thinking within strict limits is stifling. Whilst Viking
knights fight griffins, I skirmish with this riddling
sphinx (this sigil - I), I print lists, filing things (kin with
kin, ilk with ilk), inscribing this distinct sign, listing
things in which its imprint is intrinsic. I find its miss-
ing links, divining its implicit tricks. I find it whilst
skindiving in Fiji; I find it whilst picnicking in Linz. I
find it in Inniskillin; I find it in Mississippi. I find it
whilst skiing in Minsk. (Is this intimism civilizing if
Klimt limns it, if Liszt lilts it?) I sigh; I lisp. I finish writ-
ing this writ, signing it, kind sir: NIHIL, DICIT, FINI.