Matthew Scott Harris and His Doppelganger
Figuratively tack one hundred
and eighty degrees away...
where joie de vivre underscores
poetic theme, no matter every day
brings gut wrenching tearful tragedy,
thee attention for heart warming
(powdered milk biscuits
of human kindness)
doth shyly beg to gussy
esprit de corps with elan
evoking a reddit ting, snapchatting,
or twittering blue jay
mood, cuz most everybody
(including your truly)
dislikes constant emphasis on may
hem, sans mindless
violent murderous sprees,
nor natural disasters Earth quake
king, viz flooding,
out of fires burning, et cetera
thus, a concerted effort
(minus con vol fluted
schmaltzy arpeggio piano play,
drumroll, or trumpet blaring),
where pomp and circumstances
(composed by Edward
Elgar) try to stay
bull eyes euphoria kvetching,
and uttering oye vey
spin upside down
with a yippee yawping yay
plus countenancing
only gloom and doom
will conclude myself tubby
a cynical secular nihilist
making the ghost
of Missus Muir, Friedrich
Nietzsche, and David Hume
come to life (at least
in my imaginary presence),
and render a meta
physical/ philosophical loom
by expostulating their
respective profound Kant
mind bending room
min nations, even prophesying
after a body becomes deceased
(whoops a slight
non lethal faux pas)
cremated or buried
(with victuals for the after life)
encrypted within a tomb.
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