He was the best of kinds, he was the worst of kinds.

He was the age of the Olsen twins, he was the age of the LeBron James.

He seasoned with salt, he seasoned with pepa.

He regretted everything, he regetted nothing.

He was as mad as an 18th century hatter who experienced prolonged exposure to high levels of mercury, he was M.A.D.D. as a maternal non-profit dedicated to stopping impaired driving, he was M.A.A.D. as a good kid’s city.

He saw Yanni in a blue dress, he saw Laurel in the gold.

He monopolizes underlings and monotonizes fingerlings. He showed and told, he showers in the cold.

He eats pizzas and he flaunts pizzazz.

He may do good, he made you food.

He has a stop motion spider and a slow motion sloth, magic potion on his rider, foot lotion on his cloth.

He puts up with all the condescension, keeps to himself waiting for a pension.

He outsells the sellouts and out-manoeuvres the spry.

He seeks pyramids dishonestly with synecdotal evidence, considering the priority at every turn.

He knows the hero’s scale is too sparse, contesting that levels will even out the pedestools.

The hive minds, and so does he.

He’s likable, like a bull, and lies in Kabul.

He stays a level ahead and keeps a level head.

He’s still trying to reinvent the wheel, when the one he has rolls fine.

He sees the same scene every night, the same screen’s glaring light.

He’s a Millennial, he’s a Willennial, and he’s afraid of being pushed aside by an imposing Screennials, successfully immersed in the new order.

He is Smitty One, he was Smitty Too, and he always will be.

Skimmy be, skimmy be.

September 19 – Jimmy Fallon gets a tale of two Smittys
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