Non labor (relations) Day September 2026

Schwenksville, Pennsylvania -

keystone state abbreviated as Pea Yay,
this stupid non huge poem

deployed courtesy
scholar and a gentleman

really...a boot nuttin

butta hound dog
with blue suede shoes,
and an overrated allay
zee good for nothing, bay
sic doofus slob, bray

zing and trumpeting
as a ("FAKE" – and barren
of qualifications) ex pence heave
trumpeting (Don Key Oat Tee),
chutzpah twittering Prez, -
whom stoops
“To Kill a Mockingbird”
activate hocus pocus “Go Set NRA

as a Watchman,”
yepper, hip pip hooray,

whose coon sitters
un – ubermensch chick hen
nib bill, one important,
non binding willy nilly play
book title, sans how to acquire,

tousled windswept coiffed soufflé

rooted under sworn confidential heady
testimony (top secret only known
between POTUS, FLOTUS,
and hairstylist Tiffany Kaljic)

helped grow "The Art Of The De..." lay
sham (poo poo)
headline kept under ray
dar only "How
To Get Ri" Dove lousy
tonsuring service, and how easy
to get Head & Shoulders above fray
dee cats - meowing over petty files

versus joining gravy train via tracking
"FAKE" pussy footing
faux Trump wannabes, hence ICE hay

immediately railroad competition

videlicet, against ISIS speck did
Amazon tubby a root cause

thus resorting to

"Midas Touch: Why...Enter
risk to get scalped, when,
(though periwig poor
hirsute substitute), I belay
burr the point far y'all

(get a Fred – Roger over) to hoist

by one's own petard oye vey,

while channeling das Directv gray

gore re: haired (50 shades), and
direct descendent from Kublai

Khan, a moost deplorable display

yellowish, venomous, serpent,

which poisonous scorpion size prey

with deadly fangs straight

(tinned by orthodontists),

a perfect set pearl whites in an array

as daggers hissed ("FAKE")

snaky intergenerational viper, and

true tomb ice elf flave

heard like a pampered baby

(nick named Keebler Khan)

unthinkable alternative little cookie

(forever shunned near and far away)

if this poetaster doth betray
his (my) devout followers, no matter

admirably, dutifully, and gracefully
fulfilling role as sommelier

replenishing wine goblets

with vintage chardonnay,

nonetheless reprimanding recalcitrants,
who opt to breakaway
slamming, shaming, and scathing

rants against brand name
Matthew Scott Harris
finds himself a castaway,
thus unsure, how
to write without delay

an insipid poem to pay

(overtime) homage about Labor Day

prepping mental gears
glommed together like clay

while cruising at mach speed
faster then cruising (Tom Hawk)

along the (Al Gore) rhythm information

super highway expressway
axe chilly (sh...don't tell a soul
lest I club burr you -
ha juiced tees zing),
yours truly intends

to play umpteen (close

to a bajillion) rounds of golf

on the Harris fairway

Lest a Tony (nay)
boar hood tiger jumps

out of the woods painfully sinking

sharp teeth into mine flesh for play
jour rising quickly making mince
meat then fillet
mignon before (prestidigitation
i.e.presto) magically
regurgitating my self fully intact

as repurposed slimy trumpeting popinjay
any resemblance between
a vain, overly talkative person
full of empty chatter,
and excessively proud
of their appearance
and living persons –
such as the one
typing these words – purely coincidental.