Bully me you I exemplified archetypal scapegoat
Bully me you, I exemplified archetypal scapegoat...
who suffered cuts by a thousand knives.
Even as old (dish) married
(spooning) curmudgeon,
who receives social security disability
linkedin with social anxiety)
chose the fork less traveled
aye pucker with sunken cheeks,
(especially without dentures)
and raspily suction toothless mouth
drawing reminiscent guffaws affecting
attempt impersonating plumber
(think suctioning and unclogging toilet)
please support your local bummer
back in the day one
long haired pencil neck geeks palled
around with another
hirsute nerd - Roger Kummerer,
(who both of us graduated Methacton
High School class of 1977),
and yours truly readily
admitting, alluding, and attesting
without shadow of doubt
representing the dumber
than rocks of said beastie boys
bandits, donning particolored pachyderm
gabardine garb getup trumpeting,
especially as Mummer
on each New Year's Day
with bare ass tuchus
excellently imitating courtesy said orifice
(as chief motormouth) sound
of combo motorboat hummer.
Ah... the joys of amazingly aging gracefully
happily recalling never being
beat into bloody pulp dully
imagining dimming sense and sensibility
before (appearing gratefully dead)
lifeless body dumped into gully,
nevertheless all the while fully
maintaining conscious, and forcefully
summoning forth latent powers gleefully
choking living daylights masterfully
delivering just desserts upon Tom Viglione,
whose plaintive laments truthfully
resonate as blessed music
to ears unaccustomed hearing pitifully
sounding long overdue comeuppance
forever disbelieving wrongfully
perpetrated injustice
witnessed impossible mission
fueling an ordinarily meek lad
only in his dreams, he envisions zestfully.
Pugnacious thuggish hooligans...
although decades passed
(into the black hole sink
of space/time continuum)
long since elapsed, whereby hoodlums
jockeyed to rain upon the head
of yours truly,
who weathered figurative brickbats
by remaining analogous
to a deaf-mute person
one after another verbal blow
threatening introverted diminutive boy
who, no surprise did eventually,
albeit (stuntedly) grow
(as an aside resembled anorexic
Santa Claus ho... ho... ho...)
still wracked, impacted, affected...,
this punster, he haint Joe
King, nor the Riddler, but upholds
valuable humor less or mo'
feebly, lamely, and quirkily aspires toward po'
whit tree linkedin with infusing,
(no matter ex post facto)
freeing mine unsung hero,
and perchance if I threw a judicious punch
(rearranging the face of thugs)
subsequently winning the respect
towards those beastie boys,
who would know better next time,
when they come back to town
than to tangle (mane lee)
with the likes of me.
Copyright ©
Matthew Harris
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