SONNET 50

Sonnet.50-This bereft i dread for eschatology,purplish pugnacious for a golden trophy so sure,Utter now of the spring and pother of the benumb,And thee like every shadow tend,upon puritan's pungence,all ados of purple patch pyrexia set,And you not in the inferno of pyrrhic victory being traumatis'd,That thy pyromania doth putsch of your pussilanimous intransigence,The other being your indecision as derelict procrastination doth vile;And you pucker in every malediction,a poltroon ,we acknowledge in all invidious graces,you have no vindicate, But thee like none thee,inane self vacuous thee,factitious trickles for insidious behemoth,Not the nugget nor the gilded purple passage,Of shrinking violets'smother shall have lived to outlive history before history,But you shall thrive with more sparkles in mine spittle,How sullen wastrel shall time's broilling hot be ridiculed, Whereon thou crucifix as maiden wanderlust,strumpet'd thy nugget.