COME, POET, utter your EnD,
Open that mouth and tongue, distend,
Round the gums and through the teeth,
Poffer prose, saliva-sweet.

Nothing came, and silence still,
Sapience free of rhapsodist's swill,
Then, just then, her throat was slit,
And bloody loculations spilt.

All over the floor, into the ground,
The mess had here was truly profound,
It gurgled up, spraying far and wide,
Runnels of rhyme sliding down her hide.

Arteries pumped like lyritic lungs,
Echoing on the oddest of tongues,
Then, relief, as she finally spent,
Released from her muse's torment.


Penned by my hand on Falsday, the 10th of Khepary, in the year 497 MA.