Sonnet.79-for pendulous dreams with thy Dreamland and dreamland fantasies,is nothing but ephemeral ,thyself solitary confiment confined,thou of thyself,thy bibliomaniac self,dost glamourously Conceive?Then how when mothernature not pile thee on agony to be shot in thy patch up,What pinches punch canst thou earnestly pinch?what pines pine canst thou pinch,thy disused silvermoon then must be fritter'd away in sheol,
Which pilloried heels live the undertaker to thy pillock to ride pillion,O how much more vile Doth sluggishness whacky seem,by that discarded firmament,which sloth doth give,The time looks unfair,but unfairer we it adophobiac in Alupluto steed,For that delicious aroma,a fragrance which doth in it stale,the gallantry blooms have furnished architecture as hooded an intrigue,As the blossomed roses of the garish times,fester'd on heavenly dews and play pendent as nirvana,
