Voyage To The Bottom Of This... Poem by Matthew Harris

prevaricated forth write Declaration!

As most every girl and boy
taught back in the day,
learning base sic life lessons,
when going to Zerns,
now permanently closed,
but once upon a time one
bustling, flourishing, thriving
Farmers Market formerly
a year-round farmers' market located
in Gilbertsville, Pennsylvania.

It was located along Philadelphia Avenue
near Bartman Avenue,
close to Pennsylvania Route 100.

Two buildings located on the property:
a lowercase 't' shaped main building
and an 'L' shaped enclosed
flea market building,
where characters across
all walks of life congregated
gabbled, regaled each the others
akin to golden age of storytelling,

when rapt listening ears
willingly leant eager attention
to a riveting speaker
such as this jolly shop
o' horror keeper learned,
modest, and non
establishmentarian obliging self,
(who even now doth still yearns)

to spin a tattling tale, this ole codger,
who today more frequently, keenly,
and patiently plods along
volatile memory lane
visiting woebegone yesteryear
scores of orbitz ago,
those well worn pathways,
could be trekked blindfolded
so often by foot thee trails traversed,
(yet without ever feeling
a sense of duff feet) over hills

and thru woods thick
with wary, scary, nerdy,
and Rem: markably hairy
muppet like monsters,
the author, who wrote
10,000 Leagues Under The Sea,
(and other suspense
filled stories namely
the prolific writer
Jules Gabriel Verne's) ,
vivid imagination him,

would undoubtedly have experienced
a field day in seventh heaven
taking wooded rough hewn
rudimentary walkabout by turns
clear cut versus creepy simply to reach
a one classroom per grade school,
where masters did teach
being apprenticed asper Art Of The Deal
(latent within power
to sound convincing, though 'FAKE,) '

but convincing legendary
personal myths repeated to bolster appeal
such as larger then life 'Founding Fathers'
unquestionable brazen, brave, and brass
daring deeds across the Lake
(Atlantic Ocean, whose worsted weave
subwoofer - did make
the 6: 00 o'clock news the evening
of July 4th 1776, and thus didst spake
(perhaps with the help of Zarathustra)

yet, ...the under belly
of such bravura involved take
king (by subtle or obvious force) lands
revered by Native Americans
leaving a trail of tears,
destruction, and death
(more accurately genocide) , thus my
(expected patriotism) moored
within wicked wake,
hence aye avail muted tone deaf

emotion on par with a charade
particularly, where deportees
of late awful treatment
force me to a give a low
XXX slant (Failing) grade,
where home of the brave
land of the free (or visa versa)
do masquerade makes a mockery,
travesty, sham parade
AND this chap feels as if,

he too partook of
murderous indigenous raid
venal business complete,
when every once proud
"Red man" violently slayed
or displayed as token showpiece
bartered analogous
to bustling art house trade
unless demise snatched
uprooted human property
subsequently conveniently waylaid.