Matthew Scott Harris Whar Art Thou Spunk

Matthew Scott Harris, whar art thou *****? The following admission honest to dogness haint no bunk nobody, but yours truly bore deeply and countersunk his spontaneity satisfactorily lightweight corporeal mein kampf, didst more than baptise or dunk cuff, which admirably aided to flunk, (whereat no universal solvent, could (kant) kelp dissolve barnacles of sea sonned gunk), asper thickly congealed encasing this laughable antithesis of hullo kit ting hue man overweening tricky hunk, which thought to attempt skidding row bust humor as a "FAKE" teetering drunk ken-pro lit tarry overgrown punk (riotously swinging balled fists way of course), and mine feeble insubstantial poetic jabs, where teenage shadow boxer slunk tis my harmless recourse to peddle as sway to escape funk seriously, Aesop hoes, this personal mockery wrote for no rhyme nor reason junk bonded really gluten free self deprecating playfulness of course as chipper munk makes any sense, neither kerplunk emanating from atop me notch noggin swishing with grade A klunk emasculation par excellence, asper out thee talking head of this lunk, whose upcoming "talk therapy" every other Monday at 11:00 a.m. with preshrunk kin shrink finds tarnished psyche resonating analogous to reverberation while spelunk king in an echo chamber futilely questing, searching, rummaging...why I trunk hated living when merely thirteen courtesy Anorexia Nervosa with spindle shank (chicken legs) to attest as permanent stunted growth.