Sonnet - Under Keats

Booked up the shits I sniffed this holiday:
The waste, when he really messed up the team
That briefed the nipped cunts of background; - today
Who organised the established thug of violence; -
The disco with its terror, its social life,
Its pints, its roasting heat, its glass, its flame, its oxygen; -
Its approach differently, which he likes
Must telephone what I mean.
E'en now, old curry while I palm for parallels
Crimes are excused by her trivial concerns
So purposefully that it criticises your shining insults
You progress your unannounced alienation.
But what's he without the fucking screenplay and me,
The political nonsense of the land?