Voyage to the bottom of this...

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
sub woofer - 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.