Non Labor Relations Day September 1st 2023 Poem

Non labor (relations) day September 1st, 2023 poem Aye dream of Genie (as a lad din) Schwenksville, Pennsylvania - keystone state abbreviated as Pea Yay, this stupid non huge poem deployed courtesy scholar really...a boot nuttin butta an overrated allay zee good for nothing, bay sic doofus slob, bray zing as a ("FAKE") ex pence heave trumpeting (Don Key Oat Tee), chutzpah twittering Prez, - whom stoop “To Kill a Mockingbird” activate hocus pocus “Go Set NRA as a Watchman,” yepper, hip pip hooray, whose coon sitters un mensch hen nib bill, one important, non binding willy nilly play book title, sans how to acquire, tousled windswept coiffed soufflé rooted under sworn confidential heady testimony (top secret only known between POTUS, FLOTUS, and hairstylist Tiffany Kaljic) helped grow "The Art Of The De..." lay sham (poo poo) headline kept under ray dar only "How To Get Ri" Dove lousy tonsuring service, and how easy to get Head & Shoulders above fray dee cats - meowing over petty files versus joining gravy train via tracking "FAKE" pussy footing faux Trump wannabes, hence ICE hay immediately railroad competition viz, against ISIS speck did Amazon tubby a root cause thus resorting to "Midas Touch: Why...Enter risk to get scalped, when, (though periwig poor hirsute substitute), I belay burr the point far y'all (get a Fred – Roger over) to hoist by one's own petard oye vey, while channeling das directv gray gore re: haired (50 shades), and direct descendent from Kublai Khan, a moost deplorable display yellowish, venomous, serpent, which poisonous scorpion size prey with deadly fangs straight (tinned by orthodontists), a perfect set pearl whites in an array as daggers hissed ("FAKE") snaky intergenerational viper, and true tomb ice elf flave heard like a pampered baby (nick named Keebler Khan) unthinkable alternative little cookie (forever shunned near and far away) if this poetaster doth betray his (my) devout followers, no matter admirably, dutifully, and gracefully fulfilling role as sommelier replenishing wine goblets with vintage chardonnay, nonetheless reprimanding recalcitrants, who opt to breakaway slamming, shaming, and scathing rants against brand name Matthew Scott Harris finds himself a castaway, thus unsure, how to write without delay an insipid poem to pay (overtime) homage about Labor Day prepping mental gears glommed together like clay while cruising at mach speed faster then cruising (Tom Hawk) along the (Al Gore) rhythm information super highway expressway axe chilly (sh...don't tell a soul lest I club burr you - ha juiced tees zing), yours truly intends to play umpteen (close to a bajillion) rounds of golf on the Harris fairway Lest a Tony (nay) boar hood tiger jumps out of the woods painfully sinking sharp teeth into mine flesh for play jour rising quickly making mince meat then fillet mignon before (prestidigitation i.e.presto) magically regurgitating my self fully intact as repurposed slimy trumpeting popinjay.