SONNET 63

Sonnet.63- See,some gory in their hewn,some gory in their pulses,some gangrene in their rot,splash of muds in their whitelinen,Be in genteel imbecility,in treacherous as in perfidy,did not douse carcases at the hapless mystery gunpoint,Some in their writ though not wit-influx but tendentious,as if clamour were not the bane, And every moisture hath its hoop and climacteric loop,

Where catalyst finds a modcon'd frontier to catapult above mean, But sobriquette and alteregos in their burlesque,utter gibberrish and speak guille of graffittis and incognito

Supposing thou still chant the gregarious roisterers' pall of rodomontade blustery,so pixilat'd ,so shall i mightily strive to beard the lion in his den,Like a bearded eagle so froth to adorn still,may still as chickenhearted pox,seem beef to thee;Though as red as a beetrot: thy beetroot red with thee,thy behindhand still behindtimes,For there can be no bent of dent in thy benumb,therefore with that motherwit,i cannot know for certainty unravel thy drift,Which in manifold besmears false heart crooks aptly feedeth,Is bespoke for loop in trenches and dunghills and dungeon unscathe,But in hell,hell in thy crease did crease,that in that thy beseem moult derision should ever not drift,Whatever thy fraughts and noughts,karma's biddings blackspot be,Thy blacklists if any should not refrain but blacken'd blackeyes that then convalesce.