Non random, but (based on my very
far out, flimsy laughably
amateurish thinking)
faux feigned aye
firmly believe, that
what appears bye and by
as erratic, kinetic,
pathetic housefly...doth not defy
explanation, when theory linkedin
with sophisticated espy
craft, and anonymously fyi
confirmed, grounded, touted...
across world wide web
of secret agents akin
to James Bond 007 guy
remotely controlled, via
artificial intelligence high
lee believable telltale
(invisible) fingerprints my
counter espionage foot
soldiers well nigh
came to this
sticky hunch expertly ply
ying spellbinding twisted
sinister and sly
and family tombstone,
where anti-American saboteurs,
perhaps planned purposely
left loose ends
only one practiced
in surveillance would tie
dangling minuscule threads
pulled together, how
indiscriminate fiends
of American government
blatantly intrude zooming
carefree necessitating vie
hubble counter measures
Accorded unsuspecting
and surreptitious ploys
CIA and/or FBI Intel recourse
never need to explain why.
Anyway scrutinizing distraction
from Insecta nuisance
found yours truly
pondering impossible odds
stacked against this elusive drone
(YES), this supposition
finds a "NON FAKE" assertion
Musca domestica
gets used to hone
in on random (a for instance)
chosen guys, who share
the christened name
this Matthew Scott Harris,
interestingly enough
tend tubby a lone
ranger clear ring stream
of consciousness muck
cob bray undertaken
(with grave solemnity)
while awaiting for
divine intervention
with any luck
after reciting pater noster,
while this drake
didst quack like a duck,
hoop fully heard
by cosmic consciousness
differentiating my unique cluck
among the bajillion
of other angry bird,
calls and even accompanied
by snorting from one buck
king bronco minister,
whose birth debut
occurred, viz astrologic
Capricorn sign butta no fault
could hash tag, nor pin
blame circumstance attributed to
nobody in particular recognizing
accounting held for no logical rhyme
or courtesy of
posthumously feted author
Ayn Rand who, birthed
Genre Objectivism creates novel
page turner starring John Galt
(yeah...yeah..yeah...
him of Atlas Shrugged)
waiting by Howard Roark
named Fountain Head
(with mine pent up insult
ting barrage of
regular play station
expletives, and time
soon to call quits),
where protracted radar
enforced grunts to halt
**** sitter hub lee delayed by...
an unexpected Alien abduction
(fortunately nsync
with my gestalt)
this male (terrific, sarcastic fault
less rhapsodic, quixotic,
poetic, magnetic, exalt
ting kinetic, Italic,
generic, energetic, dolt
copacetic, atheistic adult
prayed for nothing
short of being struck
by a (NON binding mortally
Wounding) strunken white
hot lightening bolt.
