
When I presume to wax oracular
& prophesy immaculate vernacular,
thund’ring from on high abomination
at nucular & realator & joolery,
remind me I’m not holier than thee.
In the matter of what crosses our lips
unsaid it goes that each one of us sips
from pick-your-pronoun’s own peculiar grail:
me mine, you yours, he, she, & the deniers
of either/or-ness their bespoke identifiers.
Mine no longer to pronounce denunciation
on fellow citizens’ pronunciation.
Sisters, brothers, others, hear announced:
I’ll ruffle not a single further feather.
We’re in this blessèd English mess together.
(c) 2023 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved
Is that a promise?
I like the daub.
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Oh no! I enjoy your observations of all things vernacular! Lovely poem.
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Thank you, Sue! I caught a bad case of rhyming virus. Maybe I’m over it now! My pedantry is boundless, don’t worry about me ceasing to squeak about the vernacular from my tiny pedestal. 🙂
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The fine art of verbalising! Liked the painting too!
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Thanks, Peter. I savor the compliment.
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