SONNET 98

Sonnet-98-It's mine ambrosia,that this weary toil in a clanger,will thee this sordid waste,What toosie on a red clay and hot charcoal tonnage thee hewn,Over dearest repose that travaileth not,Yet golden deeds are golden times'tried and tested and history's most impecable penmanship and idealistic authorship,Does its alignment with superego,Maketh a awry diferrence against its thaw'd forlorn,My charm is as magical as eternity's doorsteps,still startling,for which this bung and

buggle,public debris stinks and clung adnauseam,Maketh thou thee a boss shot,even much more impecable and a sancrosanct boostraps across Alupluto's borderline,And the route to the maurader'd forest lay ambush,neath the boover boots and bough of thy bo.sun and the golden herald at sea,Within the bracket of thy own instinctive gauge,let them not content but not bristle broken hearted,When that bromide besiege thy bough,