PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS' DIARY- SONNET-28

That mug's game,fully known too well to be antiquat'd,And lo! the muddlehead'd mugwump in that trailblazer of lifelong trenches hibernates,O sinecure thou art no good o sinecure,They palpitate,still throng still palpitate,In detest of flying colours whereon the wobbling feet by sinecure plies,But since they prickly with windy verdict,That stampede,that for a force majeure,as an fait accompli,a tenthfoot pole pingpong plays,Mine own keystone beyond this masquerade flagellates,To kibbosh this vulgar trudge of valeditudinarians,and of misfire,And the kidgloves'ranting of the loung lizards,So is it that heaven's moisture flees,Who laser itself for emboss and bespokes doth latch, And every unfair roses,who trods landmines,with its foulplays,doth this lassitude and rehearse still bickers,To what thou art given thyself as slave,to that prissy,lay a squandarer,thy heirloom sticks greedily.