PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS'DIARY-SONNET 19

Of mischief,of mischance,of karma and of machiavellian primrose,Of that bromide,which doth barely by oft a prognosticate,toconjecture vain winds in hell unknown and heavenward farthest shore find,If from thyself thyself marrooned writ thou wouldst not covet to convert,Otherwise thee in purblind perpetually shorn,Yet callus'd hands intemperate,in this grail benight'd refrain avaunt,Tis gaunts and crocks in their beguilling sap,at hellish dunghill blustery crispy,To gavel palmy days with a Abel's pot of porridge,for a lifelong wheelchair of casuistry,of wobblingfeet astrayed in trenches with its captive audience,Muchfrostier than a surfeit counterfeit of arts,its twin brother,Who will then be versifi'd in its poetry lines and lo,sequestrate its huts from this vast hordes of shrinking violets?If the sickos,an anthropomorphic city square,were made bland with the nebulous dreamland of yonderhills,tarnish'd with most dread'd memoirs in sight,then six of the best strokes bevelling its predated shall dunghills be