It’s a rude thing
to eat your own words
when others are wont
to hear from you
a single syllable spread
thinly on their
morning toast, their daily
bread and butter
made more salacious
by the sound
of your spitting embarrassment
at being just you
mumbling, bumbling
clumsy, corny you.
We have radio
now
and quality TV
we are not as clever
as we are made out
to be; second place
to the idiot box
the world is a trickling drop
and I’m tied up
right underneath.
