(because the world doesn’t have enough nonsense sonnets…)
Fear not, dear boy, the vicious wombacat,
the drop bear nor the turgid cockenbull;
fear not, for you’ll disturb those horrors that
awaken to the acrid odour, dull
but sharp, of childish terror. Do not fear
the codger nor the turgid numbacrunch
the deadserts lying in their boggy drear
nor, close by them, the fickle justahunch.
The bloated blotto sloping down your street
can sniff the frightened out from half a mile,
avoid its wrath and likewise keep discreet
where betterarfs lurk armed with powd’ry guile
Your choice then; face the holshebbang front on or
fear fear, you’ll still be soon enough a gonner.