the above piece of rubbish shamefully wrought from my fifty plus shades of petrified grayish (comfortably) numb skull materiel, who, like that kid in Deliverance, a banjo he doth “FAKE” to strum.

 

As an arboreal bonobo, cereal dumbo, and ethereal fondue

oh…and an American of LVIII skittish scuttles salutary hoo

ha slip shod journey round mister sun,

and becomes Crispr than any 23andme and during Jew

if fie venture to close,

thus hastening a rush to water closet to extinguish fire loo

ping all around me – asper resembling a mulberry bush,

moost likely severe burns will into a new

lee reincarnated carbon based life form,

or if lucky aye will buck hum a rolling stone –

as the jagged key cornerstone laid for a sin a gog

 

 

 

or other non denominational church pew,

that bore witness to political ambition of one hog

in daas ice cream addict, and indulged without letup,

thus necessitating being rolled like one bump on a log

so mud dear wanton Downton Abbey dwellers,

I present a synopsis of Jacob William Rees-Mogg

(born 24 May 1969), and evinced a craving for deluxe

top of the line pie ala mode posse sub bull being nursed on egg nog

which left no rum for any contrition,

hence this mollycoddled, pampered

non heir oh gent, ex spoon non chilly unscrupulous Brit did slog

his way as a Conservative Politician of Parliament

for North East Somerset at the 2010 general election

success predicated on his birth in Hammersmith, London

educated at Eton College, he got along swimmingly with pollywog

wharf air he superseded his piers (plow man style),

who many Thames thought himself tubby

the moost salient resplendent cog.

 

 

 

Matthew Scott Harris was born in Cincinnati that fuckeye state

January 13th  – unknown+ years to date

a tangle of arms & legs testing lungs, sounded great

in the garden of Eden, he kind of resembled

a misshapen octopus under the sea with an oval pate

glowering inxs deep purple moody blue, and quite irate

thrust out womb of Harriet Harris whom Boyce did date

after courting this youngest Kuritsky whose   

(fast forward half a century) met her ill-fate

whisked by grim reaper, which demise she did hate

trademark persona imbued with vim and vinegar til illness ate

je nais sais quois personable maternal trait

evident during my boyhood reflected by this sole son

inches closer to mortality and Hades gate

aware each day ought to be cherished as the topnotch rate