Ghosts of the Gargles, Or, Run-On For the Masses
This man refusing to enunciate
who sounds like someone’s missing marbles found
by his mouth took a vote in which escape
has hands-down won against rolling around
a schizoid tongue by an everyone-but-one
to one-against-which-one-won margin, stubs his toe
on stakes in the ground and moves swiftly on
from religious talk to an amputee’s hop,
thus dealing a crippling blow to choked upon balls
made of glass in so doing, shifting their hopes
from tongue to a$s until no-one calls
no-one else for help, assuming he’s dead as the Pope
who still enjoys a game of quick marbles
with only himself and ghosts of the gargles.
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