this mere mortal frequently feels:
   a. like joost another brick in the wall
   or b. feels comfortably numb while alienated
   in this condemn nation
with the sounds of silence

   written on the virtual subway hall
n wishes he could escape
   (like that eponymous spoon
   running away with the tine e fork)
   2 the dark n far side of the moon
   jumping without Humpty Dumpty fear 2 fall.

joost as an *** side (wit me only intent 2 *** till late)
   let me playfully close this email by readily admitting
   that voluptuous women with plenty of junk in the trunk
   (or 2 employ more outdated term zoftig)
does readily prompt a top notch rating of google times ten

   for those queen of denial big a$$ bot tum gals
   who possess buxom build plus smart n able 2 understand
   how 2 cosign via trig
anyway, for your edification, i wish for nada qua non
   one snarling day vid growl joining me
   in monogamous ****** gig
which latter mental ability

might not in the least matter 2 moost men
unsure if my poetic reply you will find *** abominable bore
   or be prompt an oh bomb in a bull barrack 2 dig
   this common joe just biden his time
but in a nutshell with no intent to be impolite,

   mine eyes (no surprise nor insult meant)
favor gals whose ***** happens
   2 be outlandishly big
   in tandem to the searing roe bust english language,
   which this simian i.e. **** sapiens doth adore.

from::the fool on the hill, who lives along
abbey road near penny lane
across the street. Eleanor rigby, Mister Kite,
the virtual nay burrs o this human grain
plus Norwegian wood, the latter actually a great dane.

postscript:
words my (ahem) pen ultimate live aim
while trying 2 steer clear of reese sieving a wagging
   virtual finger in blame
neither at some fellow nor destitute dame

since chance circumstances of existence akin to being frozen
   in some space/time paradigms frame
attempting to extricate our selves playing lifelong game
which message offer in this poem rather lame.

email moi, which means
   applying cerebral muscles to flex
fire off a brief bull a tin i.e.
   preferably a brief text
    to TRACFONE NUMBER =
215---370--8929

If I don't attain you after 6 years,
I'll turn a hermit for sure, so sure.

A hermit entire life I'll despise it,
I'll bunk society for sure, so sure.

The society will bear the blame,
Apart from me it is responsible.

For your scary future decision,
I will lead the life of an ascetic.

Turning a patient seems better,
Leading a loner's life is awful.

Would be calling me life-long,
A traumatized stalemate state.

This is no blackmail but truth,
Bitter it may seem but it's better to turn a hermit if I don't get you.

Because achieving is love for me,
Silent love is not my thing dear.