On wanting to become a Norwegian bachelor farmer

I (Matthew Scott Harris, a nineteen seventy seven Methacton alum, and an eccentric and opportunistic kindhearted sexagenarian canine - born January xiii, mcmlix at The Christ Hospital within Mount Auburn, Ohio) reflexively, instantaneously, automatically shied away from the spot (klieg) lights, and avoided crowdsource most of my iv and lx orbitz round the earth mainly on account of being gifted with introvertedness, which minimized by chomping on powder milk biscuits, which magically mysterious and top secret ingredients gave this once painfully shy person formidable courage to face fearful fixes such as gallivanting, marrying, sharing literary endeavors without folly nor fanfare for the common man, whereby recognition sought courtesy google.

Less any objection with the missus,
versus never experiencing living alone
well...yes during that rough patch,
(sans during early adolescence),
I existed in a bone
huff fied impenetrable cocoon,
and just maybe before
yours truly dies, a clone
can be created from
stem cells of this doggone

melon collie, whimpering
beastie boy finally revelling,
where destiny does enthrone
me rendering unfettered
with round the cluck nymph fone
mani yolk hen pecking, nagging,
and leaching... from blood sucking
vampire spouse foregone
as a "bad" dream worse
than getting Rhode
Island sized gallstone
removed subsequently
saving said as gemstone
whiling away hours, days, weeks...
chiseling away at my gravestone,
no matter yours truly will get cremated
ashes scattered, liberated, and dispersed
finally exempt from grindstone,

where thee spirit
of Math hew homophone
Scott Harris appeased
as powdery gray flecks
similar to limestone,
that swirl reintegrating with Earth,
this quirky I poetically intone,
and soundlessly utter from jawbone,
perhaps communicating more
clearly by knucklebone.