Weekly Sonnet 47

Mr. 4000

I say it baits if you’ve met it Morte a
su à remembre-ce. First many, then few.

I’ll never get out of this world alive,
never pay everyone’s vice again (snag).

Mesopotamian small-pox-bomb Rag—
everything that’s blunderful is when you
make a graft of our bodies and jump on
on, anon—la Via Dolorosa;
rise, the beat don’t stop my struggle and strive
yet we...I wasn’t born, I was only

Hatched. Five, six...open up the gates (pearly)!
Ogilvy, Patriot! For you I fawn!
Look into it and see nothing. Well, try.
Each remark from endship above will lie.