Matthew Scott Harris And His Doppelganger

Figuratively tack
one hundred
and eighty
degrees away...
where joie
de vivre
underscores
poetic theme,
no matter
every day
brings
gut wrenching
tearful tragedy,
thee attention
for heart
warming

(powdered
milk biscuits
of human
kindness)
doth shyly
beg to gussy
esprit de corps
with elan
evoking
a reddit ting,
snapchatting,
or twittering
blue jay

mood, cuz
most everybody
(including
yours truly)
dislikes
constant
emphasis
on may
hem, sans
mindless
violent
murderous
sprees,

nor natural
disasters
Earth quake
king,
viz flooding,
out of control
fires burning,
et cetera
thus, a
concerted effort
(minus con
vol fluted
schmaltzy
arpeggio
piano play,
drumroll,
or trumpet
blaring),

where
pomp and
circumstances
(composed
by Edward
Elgar) try
to stay
bull eyes
euphoria
kvetching,
and uttering
oye vey
spin upside down
with a yippee
yawping yay
plus
countenancing
only gloom
and doom

will conclude
myself tubby
a cynical
secular nihilist
making
the ghost
of Missus
Muir, Friedrich
Nietzsche,
and David Hume
come to life
(at least

in my
imaginary
presence),
and render
a meta
physical/
philosophical
loom by
expostulating
their respective
profound Kant
mind ben
ding room
min nations,
even
prophesying
after a body
becomes
deceased
(whoops
a slight
non lethal
faux pas)
cremated
or buried
(with victuals
for the after life)
encrypted
within a tomb.