If words were germs, I think we’d spew more diseases
About this house of ours with all our lingual sneezes;
Coughing out phlegm-like complaints; hands smearing
Critiques on creaky doors with words least endearing.
Applying verbal boogers and syntactic snot,
Noise, noise, all our soiled and smelly oral rot.


Like queasy schoolboys with stomachs unstable;
At the sound of verbal expectorate, we’d clear the table.
Purging our own opinions like spoken spewage,
Chain reactions, unable to hold in the rhetorical rage.
We’d hear it and say, “it’s that time of year again,
Wash your hands, brothers, it’s soapbox season.”