8000
in Pennsylvania will begin at 2:00 AM
on Sunday, March twelfth
and moost likely will impact
min-née-ute effect on me
a run of the mill on the Floss
amazingly gracefully aging
long haired pencil necked geek,
who welcomes increased photons.
Just moments ago, a dawning realization
arose within this sol son begat
from ma late mother
and then (when following poem written)
octogenarian widower father,
(me papa passed away
since date this poem written)
oh..no nothing cat
tuss strophic, boot merely the revelation,
how fist bumping
dee clocks hour hand ahead
remembered by dat
dog gone refrain
spring ahead, and fall back,
this unemployed chap
doth down play eclat
attests that his quotidian
schedule minimally affected
holed up here in Highland Manor named flat
roomy enough for thyself, the Missus,
and buzzfeed ding fruit flies
each fuzz beating insect
approximately the size of a gnat
a minor nuisance, though tolerable
within this appealing habitat
where minor inconvenience experienced
by this Schwenksville, Pennsylvania resident
cuz as a recipient
of social security disability
(social anxiety) this psyche didst get rent
which fixed (unearned) income budgeted
and predominantly costs
of living money spent
hence no need to arise
bright tailed and bushy eyed,
a freedom akin
to festive folks camped out in a tent,
which exemption immunizes
this doodle ling middle aged
muddle brained chap subject ranting
early morning drivers,
who angrily, frenetically,
and splenetically rant and vent
thus, the tendency, piquancy, and lunacy
to twitter (for the Yardbirds),
and keep company
with night owls, who went
a hooting for all the world wide web
to hear, whence straw dawgs Bach,
the exact number of hours, yer oblivious
to the tight rigorous mortised schedule
manned by Mister Clock,
essentially foisting on bread winners,
an abstract artificial construct spurring
madcap commuters to scurry in the rat race,
lest tardiness could cost
more than ham iz zone whole paycheck
(to ap pier with permanent dock
hue ment aye shun),
an unwonted blot add hock
king worry about getting canned -
i.e. on permanent furlough,
perhaps forced into a life of crime,
yet if caught...
courtesy strapping jock
wasting away in a jail cell
as warden turns the lock
one redeeming factor,
would offer opportunity to mock
management, and more pertinently
mandate to rock
and roll to the incessant muted,
yet devastatingly loud tick tock.
