Bully me you, I exemplified archetypal scapegoat

Even as an old curmudgeon, aye pucker
and raspily suction, albeit toothless mouth
drawing reminiscent guffaws affecting
(think feeble attempt
impersonating plumber plunging -

unclogging backed up toilet),
flushed with satisfaction,
now snakes into following non sequitur,

whereby then upperclassman,

whose name Scott Lambert

 

I suddenly remembered
modest fellow one year my senior

- donned tee shirt
“please support your local bummer”

yes folks back in the day,
one long haired pencil neck geek
palled around with another
hirsute nerd - Roger Kummerer,
(who both of us graduated Methacton
High School class of 1977),

 

and yours truly readily

admitting, alluding, and attesting
without shadow of doubt

representing the dumber

than rocks of said rolling stones

foo fighting beastie boys

allied with Smokey and the bandits,

the latter donning outsize
particolored grey pachyderm trunks,
Tuscaloosa so far away;

 

especially as Mummer doth strut

on unseasonably warm New Year's Day
sporting polar bear look-alike

gabardine garb getup trumpeting,
merrily squeezing Charmin

rubbing her/his tuchus

excellently exhibiting posterior

as chief motormouth sound
of combo motorboat hummer.

 

Mein kampf elapsed distressfully
even now scores of decades later

ah..., the joys of amazingly aging gracefully

recalling happily never
being beat into pulp daily courtesy

imagine dragons saving me hide

'though dimming sense and sensibility

before (appearing gratefully dead)

lifeless body dumped into gully,

nevertheless all the while fully

maintaining consciousness, and forcefully

summoning forth latent powers gleefully

choking living daylights masterfully

 

delivering just desserts upon Tom Viglione,

whose plaintive laments truthfully

resonate as blessed music

to ears unaccustomed hearing pitifully

sounding long overdue comeuppance

forever disbelieving wrongfully

perpetrated intimidating injustice
witnessed courtesy mine doppelgänger,
who wanted to strangle
the m****r f****rs yearningly

fueling an ordinarily meek lad

only in his dreams, he envisions zestfully.

 

Pugnacious thuggish hooligans... although

decades long since elapsed,
whereby muscle bound hoodlums

jockeyed to rain

one after another verbal Hawaiian punch,

and bandied fist viz physical blow

threatening introverted diminutive boy

who, no surprise did eventually,
albeit (shamefacedly, sneakingly,

and stuntedly) didst grow

 

(as an aside resembled anorexic
Kris Kringle ho... ho... ho...),

which long sleeved Santa suit
rendered invisible liver spots;
said epidermal splotches black and indigo

wracked (in my pinion), impacted, and affected...,
this punster, he haint Joe

King, but upholds true value

nudging anonymous reader to chuckle

thru contrived written words y'know

 

good humor less or mo'

yours truly aspires toward po'

whit tree linkedin with infusing,

feebly, lamely, and quirkily
(no matter recognizing ex post facto)

impossible mission reporting punks to principal,
hence describing, envisioning, forsaking passivity
as defensive modus operandi status quo
finally freeing mine unsung

inner foreigner juke box hero.