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Sonnet for Chevyn
his brash arrogance burns like a fresh soaped scourer;
his wit like a cunningly Bishop-wraught end-game.
his potence exceeded by only his net-fame;
his wrath is a thirty-megaton devourer.
all things, man or woman, acknowledge his power,
to fight him is to learn the newbies' red-hot shame;
to watch him deal with such shows you how to maim
as he dispenses wisdom from his iv'ry tower.
the net is his toy; it lies within his claim.
those who would argue, their lot is a quick death.
these things are the facts; no argument 'tween us.
should you dispute this - your [sic] lame
and your breath:
... like a penis.
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