Trickling drops

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.

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