As a regular unleaded gaseous,
(i.e. papa's seminal afterthought)
begat male genetically wrought,
I valued myself as naught
with abilities pegged
at being average,
yours truly sought
to camouflage himself
ducked as if a scared mandrake,
and/or, who oft times
didst cower, and shrink wrought
mine puny body
into an homunculus, methought
to imagine myself
as an invisible boy, when cornered
and nearly caught
as dead meat, (especially
when threatened by bullies,
brandishing their taut
fists, this then wimpy
kid never fought
peers that seemed big
as a dreadnaught),
essentially, I wished tubby
totally tubular nonexistent,
and as a poor substitute wrought
natural inclination took root
re: blend with background,
sans wallflower, nee weekly fought
the irresistible urge
to begone, what ****
hood would make
Matthew Scott Harris
permanently vamoose, hmm...
how to stop breath,
thus hit on what seemed
timely novel idea,
without asking Seth
Thomas, viz lit up, asper
starving body to death
hence final solution,
would put to rest,
and terminate subsequent cruel
shocking one after another
electric kool aid acid test
solely predicated on feeling
insignificant at best
basically a sense of resignation
lacking any outstanding trait, lest
you count picking nose,
where underneath desk collected nest
of buggars, thru deep digging,
but never finding gold,
via nasal passage quest,
hence reiterating existential theme,
aye felt no good
even as a nobody,
but more akin
to an unwanted guest
secretly embarking on a
deadly mission fed in part
by lacking athletic skills,
particularly addressed
when sporting rough
necked bruisers oppressed
to destroy any vestige
of self worth, this former
pint size lad,
who lastly mentioned hapt tubby,
the but of every jest.
