Revised sonnet #83
You see the fickle world is wont to praise
The pushy whom in current shape it spurns
The passive popular till final days
It mutes and modulates to burial urns
I write that off as odd as passing craze
The next Id guess the sooks of stomach churns
The butterflies of vacillating ways
The bobbing bullseye accuracy earns
Id like to show myself in certain style
In silks and satins nervous next to nil
Id like to suck on sugar coated pill
Of flattery and fib to lessen bile
Id like to be just me of humble heft
Ill start to salvage soul though littles left
Chorus heft import mass
