Small fortune already spent
to maintain 2009 Hyundai Sonata
(pray cuz I love genii, or even mirthful
teletubby heaven sent)
compromising financial means to pay rent,

telecommunications service provider (Verizon),
electric company (PECO), sparking pent
up rage against the machine money meant
to buffer panic attacks
springing up like Jack in the box

yet, yours truly feels his soul got lent
to the devil, impossible mission
peace of mind out of reach for this gent
and the misses forced in poor house
alms reached out
imploring cosmic consciousness

me equal decent
fellow asking please
dole out at least one red cent
with quite a few right sided zeros
before decimal point
to relieve soul searing ailment.

Nor can yours truly afford
a new preowned vehicle
perhaps dismal circumstances
will witness me pedaling
preschool sized tricycle
generating stares aplenty quizzical
bystanders, especially kids

pointing out overgrown practical
joker, many grownups
look twice dismissing optical
illusion concluding meshugganah
mister man maniacal,
nonetheless entire crowd
**** sitters me hysterical.

Thus hoop fully explains zit
all regarding why I writ
silly poem about me,
a pedal pushing panhandler twit
(jab only fore sake of poem),
who wheely did quit
the madcap rat race
cold turkey working for nonprofit

named Matthew Scott Harris,
he sports fifty shades of gray matter
boasting memory equalling one kilobit
more than adequate as Herman's hermit
petsmart exuding blissful esprit
de corp sometimes volunteering
with Smokey as his fiery bandit.

If ja happen to espy
older pencil necked geek
most popular within
of enclave Battle Creek,
cuz, constitutes major producer

comprising breakfast cereal of champions
just toss legal tender into sleek,
the only *** I got to ****'n
actually a family heirloom antique
sold to me on grandfather's deathbed.