Deliberate pain staking attentiveness to perfection

(alternately titled: impossible mission goes awry

probably mortal enemy cast spell binding jinx)

Both mental versus

physical tasks necessitate

laser sharp attentiveness

triggered within blinks

similarly on par when people toast

momentary instance utter silence

before more'n one

wine glass simultaneously clinks

cheering hurray, especially

if delicate circumstance

incorporates telecommunications downlinks

critical vital communique transmitted courtesy

think outlier (christened

Saint Matthew Scott Harris)

with acute instincts

held hostage between warp,

and woof fifth of dimension

far away beyond where

outer limits exhibits kinks

nsync with twilight zone

dwell alienated ratfinks

resembling authentic animated

Doctor Seuss characters

where one after another

third eye blind winks.

Lame excuse told cosmic speck (me)

sending yours truly on wild goose chase

an underhanded way to rub

inept feeble poetaster punster

out webbed wide world existence

purportedly great eats boasted

deep inside black hole sun pub

must make posthaste

to nearest galactic grubhub

mission control haint made no flub

boot deliberately thought

ineffectual doling out futile drub

cuz mister flibbertigibbet (me)

ostracized from highly selective club.

The aforementioned synopsis and

ultimate banishment cheered with big bang

decreed courtesy kangaroo court

constituting beastie boy gang

think star wars movie,

where farcical charges trumped

offering accused two choices,

either to hang

suspended (think piñata) and beat

to (fictional) pulp

torturers obviously ignoring pang

of utter emasculation, but rather sang

a song of sixpence*

while downing flasks of vintage tang

crafty entrepreneur William A. Mitchell in 1957

phallic drinking vessels

resembling Chewbacca's oversize wang.

---------------------------------------------------

*Lyrics

Sing a Song of Sixpence

BY MOTHER GOOSE

Sing a song of sixpence,

A pocket full of rye,

Four and twenty blackbirds

Baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened

The birds began to sing—

Wasn't that a dainty dish

To set before the king?

The king was in the counting-house

Counting out his money,

The queen was in the parlor

Eating bread and honey,

The maid was in the garden

Hanging out the clothes.

Along came a blackbird

And snipped off her nose.