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.
Copyright ©
Matthew Harris
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