GOLDEN FLEECE.PART 2

With what clangor of the circadian chimera,doth he impetuously warm his cockleshell,where the gravy train muses swung dunghill,astray and fled?Long had he been stricken with the unedible slice of the battered earth,that trashed out golden concession of freedom.He crashes not beneath this cheapstakes of equanimity,that to damn a felicitous poke of motherluck.Any ado?any dreary?He was his own hatchet man,sentry been misty canopied,wherein his hawkeyed,not bickeringly hawks nor sweetly lay,that heavyhanded mischief himself heavyheartedly,barredly heaved a sigh,from the ruckus edges of heebiejeebies.His heathenish aplomb,interred in the heathendom of the beleaguered helmsmanship,hemmed to heel over.As if by twain lay where there were no strife.How heirloom,a prodigal of its ransom,quashed its bonafide heirapparent,a titular intergrity to a hemline of heir presumptive heir,cast over life's dim motif,so deemed it fit to coronate,in this beautifying graces,spanked fated withthe biggest understatement of its time?