i could stare at your very photogenic (albeit invisible) countenance all day, all week, the entire month, this remaining year, at least one additional decade, boot no more than a century21!
Looking for a best friend, or...a wurst (liver) re: enemy.
brief bio Matthew Scott Harris doth briefly sketch almost two win a half score years since me being: Born January 13th, 1959
I shake my shaggy hirsute hair in utter disbelief, when the cocked arrow begat thine conception, when meal ate mum and octogenarian papa
begat their second offspring and only son, what now seems to be a stepped-up pace, where father time doth affix another candle to blow where the passage of life measured
in swiftly tailored decades denoting another birthday, when with the blink of an eye, I vividly recall crow
wing like a Lil whippersnapper of a boy leisurely playing monopoly for make-believe dough... -------------------------------------------- nothing ranks as the greatest gift since being a father twenty-one years ago then bearing witness to grow increasing autonomy
of my two precious daughters whereby each will become master of their domain, and meet a loving beau (actually thy eldest dates a delightful young man from Puerto Re Coe),
whom intuition discerns would be a near perfect match – and this papa intuits dough nuts to dollars – that such an em man hint gentle, humble,
intelligent lad – doth *** pa fully become the future groom of said firstborn, (which outcome I know wing couched in a couple of poems
sent his way, and no doubt his smarts lo' and behold revealed the slightly obscure wish), where love doth most obviously abound mo' then prevailed between myself and bride o'
mine these last deuce score plus (21+) years, but now this Poe whit aspires to recognize the worthiness of she, whose chose thyself as a lifetime groom cuz peaceful status quo
avoiding animosity – as thyself and spouse gently row merrily...merrily...merrily our quiet quite rickety craft which oft times in the past needed a tow off the craggy shoals of constant woe.