Sonnet-88-thus is this clod,smitten in a vengeful cloak and dagger clomp,the climacteric clobber of a clodhopper still stump'd,When morass and rolling stone had moss'd as unfair roses stink now,Ere the clingy clockwise,clomp of the lilyliver'd upon gaol of the golden trough of bunker'd time,the cliques of the sepulcher were truculently shown the furthermost,To climber a come hither comeuppance comely by comfy on this heck of gregarious chant,Ere the villain's feet,fleec'd with silvermoon deplete,in him those comforter compendious compensate are composmentis'd,Without all briddle hung in his lance itself a mirage adinfinitum lull become,considering composite to its dregs excommunicat'd conmen;And befall as to sword of damocle doth nature's stowaway to show thyself what false art was of the days of yore elude.
Those backburner of thee that the admonitory and pedagogue's battallion doth banter and batter'd like a trounce of battering ram, Hankers introspection that the retrieval of hindmemory can greatly mend,All mortif the whack of volition givest thee that thump
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