PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS'DIARY-SONNET 22

Moult Thy Cross.Then let not contagion's rugged but pennorth gangrene,deflower'd even its hilly beans,In thee thy windy storm,ere thou be distill'd,Make thee beyond sweet compare;whose treasure some bibliocractic throng flocking,With ken's treasure;ere it be still self-sequestrat'd,That inferential inference for the fatuous infantrymen and the lay is a profound treasure trove,Not forlorn usury,which amortis'd usury with which darts forth fire of shrinking violet's wraith is dous'd;That's for thy hood to infiltrate its itsybitsy,Or a worse hit wieldier,be it itchy feet in trenches, If brash tide of an aggravated case scenario reconfigure thee,Then what could that apparition do,if thou shouldst not moult,draining thee pinkish and thee bland and stolid in karma?Be now,self distilled from fractional to acatalectic,for thou an art as ass,far too unfair,To be foible's damnable relics and maketh thee a noxious jetty for a jettison,Then moult thy cross,let not advantage slip.