(alternate title: days of yore bubba's zayda
flush with buggy boo horse sense).

Norristown City Hall police person
informed yours truly
on September 15th, 2020
mine automotive driver license expired,
thus between January 13th 2019
and September 17th, 2020
I drove automobile,
(whether borrowed or owned)
without vehicular infraction.

Prevarication about me getting arrested absent bail
and locked up into solitary confinement without fail
predicated upon outdated invalid license lands me in jail
cuz fabrication jest haint gonna happen,
hammering out suspenseful account I cannot nail,
no matter I would love to concoct tall tale

Subsequently, yours truly
steers toward truth telling in the main,
whereby prefabrication painstakingly
heavily taxes me aging brain
especially bragging about
heavenly guardian angel,

said divine intervention I abstain,
though quite tempting
to (beer lee) draft believable hopping plain
vanilla drab lackluster circumstance,
and embellish a flimsy fib
including agent provocateurs quite urbane,

whereby unwittingly, haphazardly,
and accidentally committing
non moving violation
imposing driving record stain,
particularly when aforesaid
minor harmless transgression

invites punishing reign
innocently, only unintentionally
to flout PENNDOT rule,
which hoop fully doth explain
reason nevertheless quandary
necessitated posse comitatus.

Therefore ipso facto such quasi confession,
albeit unexciting and bland
necessitates self imposed liberty
letting mine imagination command
poetic license crafting experience
resident within dreamland,

where truthfulness I blithely expand,
cuz anonymous reader(s)
more inclined to gravitate toward firebrand,
wannabe, whereby reasonable rhyme
nothing particularly grand
written by invisible hand.

Provide me please gainful opportunity
to enable and allow
glorified, edified, and crucified across
millennia one divine creature hood da boss
(no not Bruce Springsteen)
sanctifying supposed dregs of humankind

essentially flotsam and jetsam dross
humdrum life of random Tulliver kin
inhabiting the mill on the floss
a riveting saga (also Silas Marner
written by same author) with matted gloss.

Ah, methinks how George Eliot  
(Mary Ann Evans) quite literary ace,
her fiction she didst buttress and brace
galvanizing, fictionalizing, 
and enumerating disgrace
appears quaint, thee second 
decade of twenty first century
nostalgic imaginary place,

yours truly would clamor to live
exempt from careering, jackknifing, 
and speeding, rat race
peace of mind impossible mission 
leisurely pedestrian strolling
(think about taking stop at Willoughby),
where helter skelter breakneck pace
nonexistent without a trace.