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May 2020
(alternately titled: impossible mission goes awry
probably mortal enemy cast spell binding jinx)

Both mental versus
physical tasks necessitate
laser sharp attentiveness
triggered within blinks
similarly on par when people toast
momentary instance utter silence

before more'n one
wine glass simultaneously clinks
cheering hurray, especially
if delicate circumstance
incorporates telecommunications downlinks
critical vital communique transmitted courtesy
think outlier (christened

Saint Matthew Scott Harris)
with acute instincts
held hostage between warp,
and woof fifth of dimension
far away beyond where
outer limits exhibits kinks

nsync with twilight zone
dwell alienated ratfinks
resembling authentic animated
Doctor Seuss characters
where one after another
third eye blind winks.

Lame excuse told cosmic speck (me)
sending yours truly on wild goose chase
an underhanded way to rub
inept feeble poetaster punster
out webbed wide world existence
purportedly great eats boasted
deep inside black hole pub

must make posthaste
to nearest galactic grubhub
mission control haint made no flub
boot deliberately thought
ineffectual doling out futile drub
cuz mister flibbertigibbet (me)
ostracized from highly selective club.

The aforementioned synopsis and
ultimate banishment cheered with big bang
decreed courtesy kangaroo court
constituting beastie boy gang
think star wars movie,
where farcical charges *******
offering accused two choices,
either to hang
suspended (think piΓ±ata) and beat

to (fictional) pulp
torturers obviously ignoring pang
of utter emasculation, but rather sang
a song of sixpence
while downing flasks of vintage tang
crafty entrepreneur William A. Mitchell in 1957
******* drinking vessels
resembling Chewbacca's oversize ****.
---------------------------------------------------
Lyrics­

Sing a Song of Sixpence
BY MOTHER GOOSE
Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye,
Four and twenty blackbirds
Baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened
The birds began to singβ€”
Wasn't that a dainty dish
To set before the king?

The king was in the counting-house
Counting out his money,
The queen was in the parlor
Eating bread and honey,

The maid was in the garden
Hanging out the clothes.
Along came a blackbird
And snipped off her nose.
Written by
matthew scott harris  64/M/schwenksville, penna
(64/M/schwenksville, penna)   
  208
       Kanishka, Weeping willow and jdmaraccini
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