Oh, how I wish I could backchat!
Lash out with lavish tongue
And feel the quicksilver ooze from my mouth
Like the sweetest spooned treacle.
Or honey my words with luscious deliciousness.
Like the woman in the Marks and Spencer ads.
But my brain refuses to discuss this, with my mouth
Which, in company, feels like an oaf among kings;
A spasmodic Quasimodo, an unloveable thing.
If only my words had wings and my perfect speech
Could gracefully fly through the eye of a needle,
Instead of lying, broken and feeble
Like spent bees no longer able to sting.