That so much glistening bravura and gallivanting hoofs of treacherous traipses ahead,Which ushers in a gemstoned procession,a truest colours of time's rainbows,That ambly ambit of palmy days in the brew,be not hideous night that brassmonkey'd starry morn,Then of brawny gallivants and brevity of birds of passage,do i not witha bargepole interrogates?O thatyou were time's slavish ado,but bristly you are pugnacious of itsflurry and fang of fugacious fugacity,Not bat an factious eyelids,being so facile to fritter flurry whereon all mortals beneath time's paroxysm calf,creases,and thereafter quietus impounds,Trumped with this Ignition of ignition key,so sound shall the lease of time's use, optimal reckons and beckons of every passing wind,Who lets so forth in fairness its bridgehead and not rot to decay with time,O not you had a chaste,let not your winces say otherwise,And not from the morsels of time,do i my instinct pluck,But from the mishance it grooves,it is this misshap its riotous bestows in its windy sails