Some unscrupulous to say clott'd crocks,in their autarky of cloudcukoo land,overwhelmed through its artery of gallantry and heroism,Oft did the old lady heave hardihoodto her ovation realm,Which art had gilded flowers and purple birth;Blazing the sunken flowers in the muddlepath therein, That cockeyed cock'd hat knocks had purloined insularity in cavaliers, And often savaging,what discontents,it crows,yelling unfathom'd yippies,in beautitudes of profound caddles,manifold in every comme ill fault,An innumerable silvermoon,supplanted from an eccletics,it drew,Of hackney'd gait and rudder bank,Who incinerated by her capital engross,in adownpour threw,Upon whose margent emblem she was commended,Like a pawnbroker,pawning Peasantry to peasantry or sweet vision's rainment that lets regalia not dissipate to the muds,where birds in windy flight,gallivant but its acrobatic swings by its adrift of abstrusion,earnestly compress'd them conform,In this adulation of self libation,a visioneer ought to fly in its aerospace.