As a child I had a teacher
Who taught me to play wordgames
Dismember sentences and put them back again
I took an oath to be ethical and fair

As clauses came unstuck
In the rough and tumble of drafting
At the A & E I gave them the kiss of life
And they breathed again

I stitched up tears in phrases
And sewed grace into the seams
Of unruly sentences
Pain in the neck of the PE Movement

I knitted ideas from words of all shapes
And sizes, bare-boned, flat-chested ones
Obese words in abundant fat floating
Fed a range of disciplinary genes

In no time I raised
Prim and proper platforms
For paragraphs and a thesis to stand on
And glorify discourse

I look back now as a grown man
And ponder about the wordgames of my youth
Lamentations about the scourge of State
Sculpted into angry verse in First Coming

I recall my teacher midwifing the birth
of maiden words, fantasize on the management
of fame as another bill mounts the hillock
on a writer's impoverished bench

I've come quite far
along the path to versephemy
in the county of disillusionment
terribly tempted to say 'FUCK WORDS'.

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