(not really, but just wanted
to get your attention.)

Thus "NOT FAKE," but
poetic quasi true anecdote
infused fictionalized
by this ole goat
with prevarication
to enliven of no note
characteristic, and certainly
not worth quote

ting - for any future
reference material, imp poet
tent to sketch a biography
of one otherwise tote
tem **** drab existence,
     that happens
moost would vote
as exhibiting blank pages,

     which means no ghost
for me life story needed since
     no words needing tubby wrote.
thus the crux of foraging
     into how the missus
snorts in her sonorous way
the one repetitive sleepy tune,

that doth not
warrant a veejay,
nor and thespian to reenact
     a zonked out spouse from

exercising at the
Y.M.C.A. today,
but each increment of time
     imposes additional wear
     and tear on the body electric,
     thus no place...(except...
Swiss Side or
Willoughby), to runaway

from senescence process
so one must savor
     to the maximum propinquity
of each moment
analogous as if one received
money for their
existence as being payday
before day of reckoning,

     which could occur any
minute, hour, second...
with no noway
opportune time will
provide any leeway,
especially for those
ping folks immediately
at ground zero, where

     husband or wife
     kept awake from partner
     mercilessly growling drones
hell bent on then simply jay

ping, when agent provocateur
awakens only to find
     themselves bound and gagged
unable to attend the
Scottish celebration of hogmanay.