Buttonholed papa recalls non-fictional
stitch and quite a zinger
whereby swift as the hands of skilled tailor
named John Sergeant Singer
my entire body got quickly sewed up
that found me in an awful ringer

the following happened one day
while feeling kind of board
i swear on a stack of wood
the honest to dog truth down to the last cord
while driving my chevy to the ford

an ominous looking
massive airborne gourd
heading at mach speed encased
with a hungry snapping maw bell hoard
of carnivorous buttons trailed
by reams of yarn – prompted OH LORD,

or rather expletives much more
colorful verbally spewed
flew out from me mouth,
I will spare so as not to be rude
such string of curse words only goaded
eerie cloud looking for food

which nearest prey
happened to be yours truly,
this corporeal being unready
for succoring carnivorous event,
and/or averse to picnic dis May,
nor pleasant mood jabbed me
to search lost needle amidst stack of hay

but skein of story this lad best target
lest interest be lost from ye
dear reader whose pleading
might be faintly heard from me
to detach and untangle this
hunted bounty and help “sir” get free

getting attacked from angry plague
of buttons plus huge spool of yarn
grossly mistaken for human sock
to seal ling wax, and line with something foreign
sealing lips impossible even to force out
(ventriloquist like) argh gosh darn

without any last thread glom me bare
testament to make clear
for surviving kin who rank as dear

to this knit wit – if anyone kin hear
who offers chance to jear
wag middle finger quite visibly near
heck – even call me queer
or rumplestiltskin with tiny

earsplitting flatulence sounding rear
help rescue Matthew Scott Harris,
who will button his lips I swear
with duck tape and mouth sealed
with ropy hemp made under from wear
thence quickly travel back in time from this year.



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