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The Old Battle Axe and Her Hunchbacked Henchwomen
Matriarch mastermind manipulated minions
rang their hells bells signifying
damned to traverse highway to hell
dirty deeds done dirt cheap
(names changed fo' malady to remain anonymous,
cuz they got thunderstruck
with psychological trauma).
Preface:
Upon bitterly cold dawning hours of January 2000,
the Harns family (not actual name of real persons
constituting yours truly
mine wife and at that time
deux darling very young daughters)
desperately sought place to live.
Neon Swat Team (an independent realtor) politely
informed us (meaning myself and the missus), our
family lease would not be renewable.
The reason without a rhyme?
Ever since events initially laid forth as poem,
I delightfully witnessed birth of daughter
number two February 4th, 1999, (whose existence this
papa helped beget approximately nine months prior),
now twenty two plus years passed rendering contractual
non-binding obligation null and void - whew.
Even though then barely tipping scales at less than ten
pounds of flesh, (this bundle of sugar, spice and everything
nice, especially when adorned in pink bows inclusive),
she warranted unlawful occupancy capacity subsequently
exceeding one plus bedroom apartment in Schwenksville,
Pennsylvania.
Body quasi poetic/prosaic
minimally couched, sunk, tabled...
within wordy mosaic:
We reckoned to live temporarily at premises vacated by
mother in law from hell (since recent death of her husband,
whose after life settled him in Willoughby) domicile situated
at 1148 Tree Green Lane (a cozy and lazy keystone chic
urban outfitted hamlet tucked into totally tubular foothills of
Venn Palley, Pennsylvania), a nook of quaintness plum
perfect where rivers Ratford Upon Savon converged.
Copyright ©
Matthew Harris
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