when just a whippersnapper
   of a little boy
me late mum and octogenarian pop agreed
for doctor removal of my adenoid
less to prevent their only son
   from being coy

than fear of said male heir
   to the harris throne becoming an android
a less than agreeable likelihood,
   especially in tandem
   with predilection of goy

this fateful outcome unfazed,
   this now green giant, not the least bit annoyed
as captain crunch (before childhood didst end
   i.e. distend into middle age)
   beckoned yours truly with “A HOY”

horrified that my parents would be so blithe
   to steer their son clear to avoid
psychotic outcome to deliver obliviousness,
   and thus bring inner joy

so, they sent their peculiar male progeny
   believing himself to be Pink Floyd
who found himself evicted desperately,
   and in sore need of gainful m ploy

so he began his therapy in orifice
   er office of Sigmund Freud
who bore a striking resemblance
   to a wooden pecked prickly shaped toy

   (a pickle iz just a pickle)
this mental analysis delved into past –
   outcome I felt less than overjoyed
despite boss be addressed as Oedipus,

   and pay verbal homage that did cloy
dredging layered past devoid
of love, yet flush with fallacious
   prevaricated abuse from mister Lloyd
Lavinsky, a demon of a grade school bully
   forsooth sanity he destroyed!

wheel ding utmost pro lix:
scrum compulsions won
despite feeling dog tired, (like a ton
of bricks weighed me down)

while seduced by the sun
solar radiation from the sky didst lightly run
sans, i experienced
a weird wired wider sensation pun
knee sensation otherwise, this sun dry

older puppy nun
the wiser (feeling akin
to an overly sated book worm
to boot) on a Mon
Day, nonetheless, forced
by male incarnation from Lon
don, (via NON FAKE voices

inside my noggin) a potential ***
these tired eyes, could NOT stop reading
even with figurative gun
at my head, until only sluggish progress made,
which daunting task not fun
bore witness thru novel

(in this instance plotting thru - dun
know if fie could finish
One Hundred Years Of Solitude -
by Gabriel Garcia Marquez)

pea pulling his story with bun
dulls of Hiss panic
Alpha Numeric characters, -
per printed page punctuated

concluded with a period,
(premature mental dejected ******* exclaimed
how ah yee got trounced
by harsh obsessive compulsive task master.

"Nay unto you Matthew Scott"!
Uttered by exactly same grievous rot
while er...mailer daemon (as above, ***
tent shill slave driver subsequently not

quite ditto for identical bon mot
mind wielding **** mask kid ding lot
intonation, now setting me hot
to worry about my thinning hair,
the little atop nixed noggin aye got

as expressed vis a vis A previous poem
of mine titled 'Argh! I suffer the plight of Bad
Hair Year In One Day!'